


His End is Near

by EternityCode



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Add More As Needed - Freeform, Betrayal, Blades, Bullets, Chocolate, Death, Death Note - Freeform, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Hate, Kidnapping, Knives, Love, M/M, Mello Would Have Died, Nate River Could Have Died, One Year After, Pain, Physical Abuse, Physiology, Plan, Plane, Suicide, Torture, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Vendetta, White gun, information, sneakers - Freeform, wammy's house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternityCode/pseuds/EternityCode
Summary: It's been a whole year since the Kira Case.Light Yagami is dead. L is dead- most people are.There's two people that aren't particularly dead, and that's Mello and Matt. How Mello and Matt survived, no one knows for certain, but what Near does know, is that Mello is now out for vengeance.Mello is taking back his throne of power in the ranks of the Mafia, and Matt is to carry out a few of his most trusted orders, so when Mello tells the redhead, that in order to win, in order to defeat Near, in order to come out on top, he has to shoot Matt for the greater good.Matt didn't think anything could have compared, but he was wrong. Nothing braced him for the pain that was yet to come; crushing him both psychically and mentally beyond grief. He's buried away, left to die as Mello moves onwards in his game plan, and Near; they were to play that endless cat and mouse game, but not in the name of Justice, but to kill.On the other side, great forces are rising and to win, they must ban together to solve the puzzle. There's two rules to this new game, and it's quite simple: Defeat the new threat through any means necessary. Winner takes all, looser commits suicide, or dies by the victor's hand.





	1. All According to Plan

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for the two weeks wait. I don't understand how I jumped from League of Legends to Death Note, but I did, so here I am! This is going to be a multi-chaptered fanfiction and I will not let you guys down. I'm going to finish this, no matter how long it takes.
> 
> If you came here from League, thank you so much for trying something new. I appreciate it very much.

All According to Plan  
     
    With his brownish-red hair, dark green eyes, striped red and black bandit shirt, black gloves, and orange-lensed goggles, he looks almost suspicious as the young man weaves from shadow to shadow with more than two packs of cigarettes on his hands.  
    The rebellious and mischievous smirk on his lips is all the local police need to know before they're tearing after him, down the silent alleyway, only catching unsettled dust and echoes from the dead of the night.  
    Halt, they told him, stop, or they'll arrest him; words and persuasions like that only elicit the roll of his dark, green eyes and the gesture of his middle finger.  
    The lean man is fast, no doubt, as he flips himself up a dead end wall, his sneakers scraping along the bricks and he's over with one more push, the flicker of a box tucked safety under the crook of his arm.  
    He's home free, as the yelling and swearing drowns out into nothing more than obnoxious hisses in the far distance. Without another word, the young man flicks his goggles up to his forehead with one smooth move and a small groan. His hands search his back pocket, and he's lighting a cigarette without another thought- not that he had a thought, or a plan when he decided that stealing the contents of the box was a good idea. He flicks his free hand outwards and the match drops to the ground, and he's walking, his sneakers padding down the silent alleyway. The redhead is grinning, the expression on his features able to put the Cheshire Cat to shame. In the minimum light of the low atmosphere, his expression is a little crazy, untamed and almost free.  
    This man, Matt, cracks his knuckles together and sets the box down for a few seconds, a foot rested firmly along the yellow and black tape that flashed the words, “fragile.” He stretches, yawns rather loudly, before he's staring down at the compartment with the same, care-free look.

    Matt looks around, scratches his head like he's contemplating his next moves, before he's whipping out his gameboy from his back pocket. A few supposed seconds turns into hours.  
    Immediately, he's slumped against the alley wall, the rough texture against his spine not too uncomfortable, but not satin sheets either.  
    The screen flickers to life, glowing white hot for a second before the man's smashing down buttons, not a care given to the world; as much as Matt cared, the world could go kill itself. Priorities had to be taken care of, the man decides as he gives a rather aggressive click against the small gadget.  
    Besides, Matt debated, scratching his chin lightly, if he ever needed a get away quickly, his car was parked twenty feet from this direct location. Not even looking in the direction of his car, he shrugs. He's cocky, he's confident, Matt wouldn't be able to fail if he tried, he decided thoughtfully as another zombie on the screen went zap.

 

~XxX~

 

    So close to beating his high score, so close Matt could practically taste it on the tips of his tongue. Trained eyes follow the burning white, and as he's about make that last move, that last button that could decide the fate of a new era, of a new dynasty and he's jerked out of his gaming montage by a hand wedged firmly around his ear, dragging him towards the direction of his car.  
    The zombie never went zap, and that score of eight-million, five-thousand, six-hundred and forty-eight that was about to turn to eight-million, five-thousand, six-hundred and forty-nine never happened. He was stopped abruptly, the gameboy wrenched from his fingertips has him howling in anguish.  
    “Boss,” Matt grumbles, pushing strands of red hair out of his eyes, his gritted teeth, sharp enough to snap bones as his fingers are spasming uncontrollably, the gesture suspiciously similar to that of throttling as he turns on his assailant, the last breaths of a cigarette on his teeth. His dark green eyes are crazed and he looks like he might throw the box at his feet right into the other man's face before he's deflated just as suddenly as he had showed any signs of defiance, like a proud dog that had just been drenched with muddy water.  
    Mello was wearing a skin-tight leather vest with equal pants and boots to match. A chain dangles at his metal belt and the cross necklace below his chest gleams in a mean demeanor. His chin length golden-blond hair and icy blue eyes are annoyed, if not a little infuriated. The bangs that hang down to his eyebrows are swept once before he's glaring at Matt, his arms crossed over his chest, the gameboy dangling by a thread.  
    “What, why?” Matt demands, a little more than unamused at Mello's actions, his hands clenching and unclenching as he eyed his gameboy with an hungry, cat-like expression, but he says nothing more.  
    “When I meant as soon as possible,” Mello started, his blue eyes digging into the other's green ones, “I didn't mean after fifteen hours.”  
    “You didn't specify a certain time,” Matt retorts, before pausing to intake a breath, “besides, it hasn't been fifteen hours yet. I was this close to beating my high score, this close!” The young man shakes his arms exaggeratedly above his head to further emphasise his point.  
    “Matt, you've played the game eighteen times already,” Mello deadpans, dropping the gameboy back into Matt's outstretched hands.  
    “It's twenty-one times, and I was aiming for a new record!”  
    “The fact that you've been on there for fifteen hours straight with an almost explosive-like box sitting under your foot; that there wasn't even the slightest hint of suspicion in the mile radius around manages to even surprise me. This tells something, doesn't it?”

    Matt shoots Mello a sour look, but doesn't say another word as he offers to take the box under his arm. The two pace down the street and towards the direction of the redhead's car.  
    “Maybe it's all according to Near's plan,” Matt whispers, staring at the ground.  
    “Don't talk about him!” Mello immediately snaps, the sudden aggression on his features even setting alarm to the usually carefree gamer.  
    Matt shakes his hand and looks away, almost recoiling, no longer wanting to play with fire, in case it actually did lash out.

    Both walked in complete silence before Mello spoke up, the look on his features concerned and thoughtful, “if Near did want me to find the box, why wouldn't he refuse me of the change in the first place? The stranger thing is, if he could have prevented me from getting such a vital upper hand, then why; it feels as if he's gifting, no, giving it to me.”  
    Matt just shrugs, whipping out another cigarette from his back pocket.

    “If I were Near, why would I want my competition to find such a key? Furthermore, if I were Near, and supposedly, Mello, did find it, what would I do next? Would I wait for the right opportunity to take it back? Is simply a misconception, or a slip in the plan? What would I gain as Near if Mello did find it?” Mello questioned out loud, the gears in his head burning at an extreme rate, “or is it just because, as Near, I'd want him to know that he knows that I know and that he knows that his end is near? Perhaps, everything is going according to my game plan? Or I just knows in general that giving him this item won't help in the least?”  
    Matt pauses, he takes the cigarette from his mouth and blows, ghosting the air with the toxic fumes.  
    “I actually have an opinion on the matter,” Matt nods his head thoughtfully, before he shifts his weight, preventing the box in his left hand from falling, “you might not like it, just gonna put that out there.”  
    “Then don't say it,” Mello growls, knowing full well that adding more doubt to the scenario would only cause him unwanted distress and panic; it may even be the ultimate move to push himself into the clutches of Near's fingertips.  
    “Okay, fair enough,” Matt replies, before tackling the car key from his back pocket. The man clicks it once and whistles in a very optimistic tune.  
    “Where are we off to, boss?” Matt asks, his voice plain, before he raises an eyebrow at Mello, who had just climbed in next to him.

    _I need to learn his routines, feel what he's feeling and know what it means. If I were Near, what would I do right now? And if I do realize what he's going to do, how can I prevent it before it's done? Of course, these are merely just thoughts and hints, considering the possibility that Near doesn't know I'm alive, or of Matt's existence, because I technically died off a year ago, during the Kira case. With Near however, I'd never know what he's thinking right now, so the possibilities that he knows about our whereabouts and existence is quite a possibility and threat. Given the benefit of doubt however, it had been confirmed that the Mello Near knows has been killed off and the Matt Mello also knows, has been shot to death._  
    So technically, there shouldn't even be a sliver of doubt, but there will always be one, because Near is a big-headed brat, and he's easily as unpredictable as Kira. His intelligence says twice as much, and with his steady hands and leveled head, it would be impossible to just assume that Near does not know what could easily be leaked.  
    What I did today was rash, even if it was according to the game plan. Though, I shouldn't have revealed myself to the whole world, I have the hint that Near knows, that I know that he knows that I am not dead. So therefor, exposing myself should not be as dangerous as thought so. But then, as I thought earlier on, when I did reveal myself to the world, I most certainly must of confirmed Near's suspicions.  
     
    And back to square seven. That is only if he knows that I am still on planet Earth. If he doesn't, I still have a cover to use before everything blows. Or perhaps, I have just always assumed that Near knows that we are still alive, even if our chances of survival was at a dead zero. Perhaps, now that I think about it, the package was put there not to bait, or even to mock or bluff, maybe, it as simple as letting one's guard down. As much as Near knows right now, there is no third party, meaning there is no Mello or Matt. So, when the package does get stolen, the most obvious and logical choice is to turn towards Near's biggest threat; the second party.  
    But this is Near I am talking about. Him, letting his guard down? Impossible, I need to keep that in mind.  
    I need to start thinking like Near, to beat him at his own game. I am not Mello, as much as he knows, I am no one right now.  
    I have no title, I am not one's successor- I'm dead. There is no real threat of competition, meaning I am out of the suspicion circle for the time being.  
    So, back to square seven, we are as good as dead, and I can only be revealed if I'm still on planet Earth. He doesn't need to know the part where I'm still psychically on planet Earth.

_There is no traceable proof. He can't do anything to me right now, even if he did question my existence, because he cannot accuse an innocent man man of a crime he never committed. It is because, as much as he wants, he cannot trace back to the fact that I am actually Mello. All evidence has either been wiped from Wammy's House, or confirmed on the news one year ago.  
    Mello is dead. “Mihael Keehl,” however, is not._

_He couldn't force me into a dead end if he tried. That concludes it, doesn't it? I'm safe for now._  
     
    “You've been quiet for a while, Mello,” Matt noted, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the butt of a cigarette.  
    “Huh,” Mello concluded, his gaze thoughtful as he looked out the window, “suppose I am.”  
    “Is there anything I can do to help?” Matt asked, through mouthfuls of smoke, ramming his fist on the steering wheel impatiently as the motorcycle in front of them refused to move at a green light.  
    “Now that you mentioned it,” Mello started, a dangerous smirk curling at his lips as he slowly took out a bar of chocolate, “in fact, you can.”  
    Matt, seemingly to understand for the first time in many that he had just made another fatal mistake and gulped, the cigarette butt falling from his lips, his dark blue eyes tense, like he was already regretting his decisions in life.  
    “And this.... Favor?” Matt asked, cringing inwardly, his hands tightening in their leather retrains, his expression oddly afraid.  
    “What is your pain tolerance?” Mello blinks, raising an eyebrow at his friend as he studies the packaging of the treat shred under the weight of his hands.  
    “Wha- I- wait, what?!”  
    “So, what is your pain tolerance?” Mello repeats, a sinister grin on his lips as he unravels the wrapper.  
    “I understand.”  
    “I'm counting on you, Matt,” the man nods, clapping the other's shoulder with one hand, before chomping down on the chocolate bar, snapping a piece clean off, “delightful.”

 

~XxX~

 

    “So, when you ask me of my pain tolerance, I have to conclude that my next mission is hands on, and not reporting any suspicious movements from a good distance away, hidden under camera lenses and security measures, right?” Matt asks, just in case Mello had a merciful change of heart.  
    “Correct, smart aren't you?” Mello teases, as he takes an experimental sniff at the small fragment of chocolate, nibbling at it lightly before popping it into his mouth.  
    “And I get that you are going to tell me how I am going to die?”  
    “Positively,” Mello breathes through a mouthful of that bittersweet dark chocolate, “not.”  
    “What?” Matt blinks, dumbfounded as he's staring at Mello, the grip on the steering wheel lost.  
    “By not telling you, I am only ensuring your safety and believable performance,” Mello mutters, looking at his fingernails with great interest, “and keep your eyes on the wheel, we wouldn't want an accident.  
    “But by not telling me, how am I supposed to know what I'm gonna do? Won't I mess up your precious little game plans?” Matt mutters, rolling his eyes, before his expression is once more, like a cat that has basked in the rays of the sun, relaxed, care-free and positively bored.  
    “If I told you, then your performance would be unbelievable; it wouldn't be the “perfect” human nature reaction one would expect. So therefor, if I told you too much, you'd freak out.”  
    “Mello, I've been through my whole childhood, pretty much servicing you and keeping your temper tantrums at bay!” Matt whines, “plus, I can handle it, I swear.”  
     
    Mello looks at Matt for a fleeting second, and their eyes lock, the blue pierces through the green and they bleed, mingling.  
    Mello is whispering to him so lightly, that Matt nearly wished that he had misheard his boss.  
     
    “I'm going to shoot you.”

 

    “Shoot me....” the redhead echoed, toying with the straps of his goggles with one hand, the silence seizing him, freezing up his very being at the thought, “will I die?”  
    “No, not if you are acting on pure impulse,” Mello sighs, looking away as he discards the leftover wrapper, “I didn't want to tell you, because I knew this would happen. You're going to extremely nervous up until the point it actually happens, I fear that you would do the opposite of what your instincts tell you in that one moment of panic.”  
    “It's going to hurt, even after damage control,” Matt says, his sentence not a question but a statement. The man grits his teeth, before his body is tensing up, “I understand.”  
    “I'll do whatever it takes.”  
    “I understand.”  
    “One more thing, Matt.”  
    “Yes, boss?”  
    “Whatever happens afterwards, just- just trust me. You're going to hate me afterwards, but just trust me, even when it does look like betrayal.”  
    “I'll survive.”  
    “I know you will, and don't you dare come back dead. That’s a command.”  
    “Roger that.”  
     
    _Matt is going to hate me, surely after this. This is for the better of the plan though, I cannot let this chance slip by unnoticed. It will hurt, there will be pain, but I'll get through it. I have always let my emotions and impulse get the better of me, but now I have learned, I'll play the game Near's playing. I'll be the “Robotic Prodigy,” if that is what it takes. I'll simply see everything as games and pawns, nothing more._  
    I've thought this through over sleepless nights and boundless pixels, I am ready, too physically ready that I could shoot Matt right now, but that would do the plan no good. Emotions would only get in the way afterwards; I cannot afford such a dramatic note to turn on me right now. I am psychically acing, too anxious, the strings bound so tightly around my neck that I want it to be over as soon as it can be, so it can all end. Then start again.  
    Am I emotionally prepared to shoot  Matt, under the name of pride and glory? For just a simple title?  
    No, I'll finally see the defeat on Near's face, I'll see his despair and everything he has torn from him: his glory, his title, his stupid, pathetic little games.  
    I'll see him waver, I'll see those emotionless gray eyes blink, and realize for the first time, that this isn't just a game. He'll see and understand the very transparency of his human form.

_He'll break._

_My victory that he stole from me and claimed it as his own; I'll make him pay one vein at a time. I sacrificed everything for a name; my Mafia, my pride, my whole life, all for the sake of one word, torn from me because of Near- no, Nate River. I know your name and I will come out on top._  
    I will be victorious.  
    No, there is no turning back now, there is no difference if I'm emotionally prepared or not, it'll still hurt in the very end. I need to fatally wound Matt but not to kill, only so that both him and he can believe that this isn't rehearsed- the Mello that Near knows is emotionally attached, the Mello he knows would not do such a thing. I'll play his game, and I'll beat him at it, because I know that he knows that I know that he knows I am prepared if he already didn't know.  
    All according to my plan..... 

_I'm prepared._

_But, is Matt?_


	2. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I updated and fixed up the first chapter a bit, and changed the title of this multi-chaptered fanfiction into something I thought was better suited.
> 
> I may release the third chapter today, or I may just wait another week.

Betrayal

      
    “I trust you, Mello,” Matt sighs, glancing at Mello almost desperately, but the carefree swagger in his voice is enough to mask his true fears, “promise I won't die?”  
    “Matt, you need to relax. The plan isn't even going to happen for another five days,” Mello tries to reassure the redhead, while he's inspecting the newest stock of ammunition. The man pulls up one of the bullets and raises it to the lamp light, looking deeply disturbed as he plays it between his slim fingertips, “and this is why I wasn't suppose to tell you,” Mello whispers under his breath.  
    “So, you're telling me that I only have approximately one-hundred twenty-two hours, ten minutes and a rough estimate of thirty-six seconds to live?”  
    “No, you'll only have one-hundred twenty-two hours, ten minutes and thirty-six seconds until you take a short and reversible break,” Mello sighed, patting his companion gingerly, “you're fine, Matt. Nothing bad is going to happen to you-”  
    “-other than getting shot.”  
    “Except that.”

    _Can I even guarantee Matt's safety? No, of course not, there will always be an unknown element. I'll need to expect the unknown and think ahead of it. No plan is bulletproof, but if the bullet doesn't collide, then there is no unknown factor to worry about, even if there is one. The problem isn't even about Matt's safety, it is about if the game plan's success or failure.  
    Now, if I were Near, and I just watched supposedly, Mello rise from the dead and shoot his best friend, what would I do? I'd think either this Mello was fake, for the Mello I know wouldn't do such a thing, or, Mello has gone mad. I'd also question the realness of Matt. However, I'd never know if this was the real truth or not, because Mello and Matt technically died during the Kira case one year ago. So, to catch Mello, I would need actually evidence that he is still physically alive and well, and in order to that, I need to actually find the gathered information. When I do, eventually collect the evidence and prove Mello's existence, I'd need to know his motive.  
    I'd know that Mello would want some sort of vengeance, or even want to reclaim his wounded pride, and I'd know that I am the main target...._

    “-still there?”  
    “Oh, yea, where were we?”  
    “I was asking if you wanted pizza delivered or a takeout?” Matt asked, swiping the cigarette box from the counter, before crossing over to where Mello sat. The man makes himself at home, stretching lightly as he flips out his phone. The man quickly pulls out a lighter and he exhales in a soothed manner, breathing out the fumes before he's raising an eyebrow at Mello, who was still on the chair near the desk, counting bullets.  
    “Don't care,” Mello waves dismissively before he drops the bullets into the container and closes the cheap cardboard lid, “get me a few more bars of chocolate.”  
    “You got it, boss.”

    It had been an hour or so when Mello looked around, like how he was just beginning to notice his surroundings for the very first time. He's out of that daze, and the man is sensing about, a little confused as he pulls up a chair and sits next to Matt who was chugging down bottles of beer and pizza.  
    Their little base area was small, if not a little cramped. There was nothing suspicious in the two roomed base that was disguised as an apartment, other than one small and one big box that sat in the middle of their desk. The yellow and black tape still flashed in the low light, as the packaging stood relatively untouched.  
    Mello knew what was in there, if he had to guess, but he made no move to open the packaging. There was no need at the moment and to be fair, they were only human; the stress on this one day was already enough, and they certainly didn't need another wildcard thrown into play at the moment despite how anxious and aggravated he was.  
    He wasn't cut out for this type of waiting game; the thrill was calling out to him and it had him aching both physically and mentally but he would if, if not for his own good, then it would be for Matt's sanity.

 

~XxX~

      
    It was later that night when Mello found Matt bent over his car, painting each scratch off with a determined gentleness usually unseen. He dips a small paintbrush into the cherry-red bucket and he pulls out a bit lightly, shaking the extra contents on the side of the tin before he's bringing it up the head of the car, covering every little imperfection and dimple. He had his goggles down as he worked, the usually loud atmosphere silent, like the whole of the garage was holding its breath, waiting to see what came next. The redhead is caressing the side of the car while squinting down at the paint, watching patiently as it dried. The man looks down even further and with callused hands, tested the pressure of the front left wheel for a second before he accidentally wiped oil grease across his face.  
    Mello stops, and his boots make one distinctive click against the concrete floor, causing Matt to drop what he was doing and look up, turning around to meet his boss' demands.  
    “Did you need anything?” Matt asks, his smile infectious as he's pulling off his orange lensed goggles, “I just finished touching my baby up. She's ready to roll.”  
      
    Mello doesn't answer the lean man, but simply looks around, eyeing every piece of scattered tools, plastic boxes, water buckets and rags. The redhead follows the blond's glimpses and he immediately speaks up, using a relatively clean part of his shirt to wipe the sweat and fog from the insides of his goggles.  
    “I'll clean up afterwards, don't worry about it.”  
      
    Mello doesn't respond, but paces over to his companion, squatting down next to him.  
    “Why do you bother with that car?” Mello asks, truly confused as he's running a hand down one of the tires, “if you know it's going to come back here in worse shape every single time?”  
    “Because I love this car,” Matt states, patting the hood of the red car gently, “taking care of it is one way I say thank you to all its services.”  
    “It's a lifeless hunk of metal, though. Besides, why bother if you know it's going to get destroyed sooner or later? Isn't its sole purpose to service?”  
    “Hey!” Matt complains, holding the car protectively, “you're hurting her feelings.”  
    “It's a car, Matt.”  
    “That doesn't mean you get to disrespect it. After all, this car has saved you.”  
    Mello sighs, turning around, like he's about to leave and call their pointless debating to an end, but he's speaking up, telling Matt not to slave himself over and to get as much rest as possible before the morning. Even with his back turned, Mello could almost see Matt's smug smile from behind.  
    “Sometimes, you just gotta feel with your hands.”

    _Matt, can you trust me? Matt, will you be able to follow up on the game plan when the time is grand, when the panic is high? Will I have to take certain precautions and enforcements against your will and will I have to force your consent?  
    Matt, I'm sorry but I cannot trust you on a such a crucial time. You've always went by your instinct and impulses, and that could easily ruin the plan. I would know, I've tasted my wounded pride just like that, one year ago. I will not let this shame repeat itself, not on me, not on my pride._

_I need to hit him hard, fast, I cannot waste another single moment. The plan must be set into play immediately, or else Matt may throw an unknown factor into the mix.  
    Because this is Near I am talking about, I cannot even waste the slightest hesitation or shed the slightest hint of panic. Therefor, I will not being telling Matt of the change in the plan, until the point that it is actually happening.  
    If I were Near, what would I do.... And furthermore, when would I do. If I were Near, I would be calm and calculating, collected and waiting. I'd see this as another game, I'd want to explain these theories and countless possibilities to the fullest, I'd be obsessed, absorbed by this hidden third party concept. There is not a sliver of doubt that there isn't is a third party, in fact. I would not expect a second party, because I would recognize the wounded man the moment my eyes fall on the screens.  
    I would conclude that Mello is still alive, but I would question how he has done it and if it was truly him.  
    I'd need a name and a face to confirm the transparency of Mello's existence and I do not have one, so I'll take Matt into my custody and question him for every single grain of information or even a leaning indication._

_But, Near does not have a face at the end of the day. He will be only hearing Matt's words, and words alone can only leave him hanging, giving him no choice to believe the lies that Matt doesn't even know he is spilling. Matt will have not the slightest bit of idea; he'll be filled with pain and betrayal. He'll tell Near everything he knows, and when he does, the game truly begins. Without knowing, Matt will be using the twist of reverse, reverse physiology on Near.  
    To assure complete success or at least as close to possible to flawless, Matt needs to know absolutely nothing.  
      
    Also, I would be forced to shoot him sooner than I intended to. Matt needs to stay oblivious for the good of the game plan. If my mathematical certainty is indeed certain, then I'd say the deadline is two days at maximum._

 

~XxX~

 

    “Hey Matt, I need you for a second,” Mello grumbled as he pushed himself through the narrow passageway, “we're breaking in the box today.”  
    “One sec, boss,” Matt replies, as he pushes his goggles up into his mess of red hair, before coming over to the wooden desk where Mello sat, tinkering with the yellow tape, “yea?”  
    Mello is staring up Matt like he couldn't believe his eyes, before he's signaling over, making a beckoning gesture like he needed something.  
    “Oh right,” Matt muttered, pulling a small kitchen knife from the counter, before handing it over to Mello, looking strangely reproachful.  
    “Does the cat have your tongue today?” Mello snaps, his mood completely soured by the lack of motivation and rising suspicion, “or is it not getting through your thick, impossible skull again?”  
    “Is something bothering you?”  
      
    As a reply, Mello stabbed the knife into the box in one swoop, the death glare upon his face enough to shut Matt's mouth. The knife went deep, cutting straight down the tape, through the cardboard, and breached the insides, exploding the bubble wrap in the process.  
    “Did I say you can question me?” Mello demanded, slowly rotating the knife around the cardboard, making unsettling noises as he went, his teeth gritted, his posture threatening. The seething rage was clear, even if Mello's expression barely changed throughout the whole ordeal. His fingernails dug into the leather of his gloves and his mouth was open once more, like he was going to lash out at the redhead but he was cut off before he was even started when Matt brought his hands over to the knife and gently attempted removed the blade from Mello's grasp, his actions slow and determined, like how one would handle a cornered animal. Mello held on with cold determination, but he made no further move to express his anger physically or verbally.  
    “Mello....” Matt breathes, as he's working Mello's grip on the blade, “something is bothering you, isn't it?”  
    When Mello does not bother replying, Matt massages the blond's shoulder with one hand softly, almost coaxingly as he's whispering words to him, reminding the man that he was perfectly reliable.  
    “Tell me, I want to help you,” Matt voices softly, breathing in the air and keeping a firm pace on Mello's shoulders, “this isn't the first time I'm dying for you.”  
    “Look, Matt, I'm going to be the one to shoot you. How is that suppose to make you feel?” Mello stiffens under the touch, but makes no move to remove it.  
    “I honestly don't know, but it'll be cool, right? Besides, I'm not actually gonna die, as you said early. Everything is going to be fine, Mell.”  
    “Mel-”  
    “Boss, I meant boss.”  
    “Matt,” Mello sighed, glancing at Matt with an almost disappointed glint in his blue eyes, “you don't know what you're talking about, do you?”  
    “Boss, I'm not gonna to die. I know that's what you're worried about. Don't be.”  
    “Of course.”

    _He's so gullible. I just wish he knew the importance of the situation faster, he's not catching on, is he? All the more reasons to launch the plan sooner. Does Matt really think I'm worried about actually shooting him? It's the time that is frustrating me to the core; if only I could time it perfectly, then I wouldn't be stressing over these pathetic little details.  
    Am I sorry, Matt? Am I regretful of what I am going to do to you to dig through Near and defeat him once and for all? No, I am not, but I promise you once this plan succeeds, I'll give you everything; I'll give you endless gold, anything that you ever desired. You only need to suffer a bit more, than it's make it or break it. Your sacrifices will not be lost in vain._  
      
    “-Boss?”  
    “What is it?”  
    “You're going quiet again.”

    Mello looked down at the ruined packaging, before his grip on the knife slackened completely and Matt took control, wedging it out carefully. The redhead flashes an almost triumph smirk at the blond before he's slowly cutting the tape away, trimming it down slowly, cautious not to damage what was inside. With a clean snap, the tape withdraws, and Matt pries it open without much needed force.  
    Callused hands retracted, leaving Mello to inspect the equipment. Slim fingers reached into the sea of bubble wrap and they parted the obstacles, before Mello is pulling out a even smaller container, but this time it was a black leather box. The leather was elegant; it simply tasted expensive and looked even more costly with the golden lining and the stitching of gold threads on the top of the box which made out the letter, “N.” Mello ran his hands over the gold threads, feeling how smooth and simply how transcendent it was. The object felt so real in his hands, and it tasted great, knowing that this was Near's and that he had taken it from him by force, both emotionally and physically.  
    He cracks the case open by a small crease, blue eyes anticipating, excited like that of a wild animal, the thrill and adrenaline pumping in his veins, making him none less than unstable. Mello felt giddy and oh so excited, the atmosphere suddenly too hot like an overrun heater and he could feel himself almost sweating, the never ending tingling on his spine was shaking him so much, he thought he was going to shatter right then and there from intoxication of excitation.  
      
    Mello flipped open the black leather casing completely, blue eyes wide with shock, simply admiring what was there. So crystal clear and light, airless and barely ghosting. It was beautiful in its own way. So transcendent and transparent, elegant, rich.  
    Mello inhaled, his breath ragged, as his fingers rolled down the casing, his thoughts frozen in time.  
    Before Matt could react, Mello brought the casing up into the air, and with a terrible growl, he smashed it against the opposite wall, denting the surface on impact. On collision, the leather made a shrieking sound against the steel, leaving tattered remains in its wake. The glass lining that protected the interior shattered and fragmented, rolling off the leather and onto the ground, glinting in the almost-light beneath.

 

    _The leather box was empty._

 

    _Mark my words Near, you will suffer.  
      
    But, even if it was a fake, it is still not traceable to me. In fact, without this object, I can still proceed as planned. Just think of the object as the frosting on the cake. It's not completely required, but it would have been respectable. This isn't over, Near- Nate River, this isn't over.  
    I'll have the last laugh._

_So, if I were Near right now, I would have known it were missing. If I were Near, I would have tried to find out more information in the span of the two days that it has gone absent, but there would not be an inch of success. I would be obsessed to find out more about this third party.  
    If I were Near right now, I'd be levelheaded and prepared, but I wouldn't be able to be prepared to such a dramatic play that is yet to come. I, as Near, will have absolutely no idea what is happening. Nothing that I wanted to match the desired results will match up, there for, I'd try to think outside the box.      
    Before I can think outside the box however, I'd need to know more about the situation first. When I'm attempting to understand the situation, this would be the time that I am most uncertain and unprepared. Of course, I'd be on full alert, but I wouldn't to be able to expect a single thing. I'd be left in the dark until the plan actually unfolds before my eyes. Either way, if I were Near, I'd have to have this third party to take the first move and win the first game out of the many that are yet to come.  
    If I were Near, it would give the unknown party an edge in the physiological game, as well as physically if I cannot do anything. I'd try to level it out, maybe even attempt to disturb the plan somehow, using the benefit of doubt from the opposing party.  
      
    But me, as Mello, would have already foreseen this and your benefit of doubt will be nothing, absolutely nothing if I do not believe it, because I know that you know that I know that you cannot do anything, and that I know that I know that I am not falling for your pathetic little tricks this time around._

_You're playing my game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you did like and enjoy, drop a like and a comment or two.


	3. Admittance

Admittance

 

    “Hey, boss,” Matt asked in that same signature lazy manner and casual drawl, “didn't you say something about a building?”  
    Mello makes a “humph,” noise in return, wiping a mess of his blond hair from his face, his dark boots clicking after him in a steady manner, one gloved hand brushing over the cross necklace on his chest. As they strolled down the dark alleyway, a particularity strong wind blew by, ripping the cigarette from Matt's lips.  
    “You see that glass building?” Mello asks, directing Matt's attention with the point of his fingers at towering construction a few blocks away, “I need you to be near the the entryway of that building.”  
    “What for?” Matt asks, attempting to light another cigarette against Mello's glares.  
    “Don't play dumb on me now, Matt,” Mello rolls his eyes before pointing at the same spot he did seconds ago, “I need you to watch the front entrance of that building. Report any suspicious movements and anyone who enters or exits the building.”  
    “You got it, boss,” Matt smiles cheerfully, drawling his orange goggles down onto his dark green eyes, “and you?”  
    “I'll be watching from a distance, in case anything else happens. It would be best if we didn't stay in physical contact with each other for precaution reasons,” Mello replies, “and according to your research, the place we are currently at is a very good blind spot, so I'll stay put and keep watch.”  
    “Oh, and also,” Matt paused in his tracks, glancing around at Mello one more time, “you're not gonna be shooting me here in three days, right?”  
    “What's the answer you want to hear?” Mello barked, his features lacking in any form of patience as his heavy boots stomped against the ground once, clean and crisp as he glared back at the redhead. Matt rolled his eyes before weaving his hands into his mane of red. He took off without another word, sliding from shadow to shadow, his lean frame, suspicious attire and posture reflected that of a black cat. He was quick, and fast, but most certainly accurate. The man slipped in and out of every possible blind spot he could remember, not a blunder or a single flaw in his movements.  
    The normally carefree and manner was sharpened into something else; alert and sharp, unforgiving on every detail.

 

    In less than a minute, Matt reached the location.

    Mello slowly slipped the gun out of his back pocket, and the silver metal in his hands gleamed sinister. Without a word, silent as the alleyway, the man clicked the gun into place, ready and waiting.  
    “Are you in position, Matt?” Mello whispered lightly into the receiver that was locked onto his right ear. The small microphone on the mouthpiece provided great access to every one of Matt's words.  
    “Yes, boss,” came the reply. The speech was crystal clear, as if Matt was speaking to Mello face to face. In a sense, it only made the situation more twisted and cruel.  
    “Do you see any suspicious movement yet?” Mello asked, as the gun he held slowly moved upwards, slowly edging towards Matt's direction.  
    “Not yet, but someone's exiting the building,” came Matt's voice again, and Mello slowly locked in on his target.  
    “Okay, good.”  
    “Any other orders, boss?”  
    “Matt, this is serious. I need you to do something for me, and you can't miss a beat, understand?” Mello hissed into the microphone, as his gun gave one distinctive click, his hands unwavering. The man's fingers felt sweaty and jumpy, but he held his position.  
    “Whatever you say, what do you need me to do?”  
    “Tell me if you can see me?” Mello asked, the gun still pointed directly at Matt, the last syllable of his sentence punctured with a slight voice crack.  
    “Nah, you're fine. Can't see you from here, the building's shadow is on you. Even if that wasn't a blind spot, the cameras won't be able to pick up on you.”  
    “Oh....” Mello said, “that's good.”  
    “What did you need me to do?” came the question from the receiver.  
    “I need you to expose yourself to the front camera, and don't look my way.”

    Mello watched as his companion moved into the light of the cameras, scratching his head lightly at the front door, with a smoking cigarette already between his teeth.  
    “Now, I need you to look directly into the cameras,” Mello ordered, “slowly, don't rush it.”  
     
    The gun clicked one last time, before Mello's fingertips crushed down upon the trigger-

    “Matt look out!”  
    _“-boss!”_

    Mello's warning had given Matt just a millisecond before the bullet had been fired. Matt's words were crushed into a gruesome shriek before the collision painted the white doors red.  
    The skies were black with blood-filled rain as Mello's fingers fell off the trigger.

    From a distance, Mello could see the man clutching his heart, the cigarette falling from his teeth as he's staggering two steps forward, before something dripped onto the concrete floors.  
    His eyes were terrified and pain-filled, his features frozen in shock, disbelief, doubt, understanding, then betrayal and he looked his way; Matt caught Mello's eyes, the green was bleeding into the unseen blue, before his mouth opened in a terrible wail; that of a pained animal. Blood-stained teeth and blood-soaked lips, and blood-painted chin was thrown into the full view of Mello's vision, and the blond cupped a hand over his mouth, stifling screams of his own.  
    With one more glance, Matt looked his way for one eternal second and tore his head away, facing a different direction before sinking to his knees, the crimson, distinct against his black and white shirt. His hands were caked with blood, and the man was starting to feel light-headed, the emotions in his chest was enough to eject the bullet right out of his flesh. Matt gritted his teeth; he was shaking, he wanted to cry out, do anything that he wasn't doing right now, but no words came out, only dreadful moans and gurgles.  
    And he exhaled, in one shaky breath, glanced around like he couldn't believe his eyes; Mello was missing and his heart missed two beats. The blood and spit that had been stored away in his raw throat came tumbling out, like an unstoppable tide and he was coughing so brokenly that even he wasn't certain if the tears currently staining his face was from the physical pain or the emotional betrayal. With a pang, Matt realized that he was going into the first phases of shock and denial.  
    It was a system overload and he understood exactly what had happened, but he refused to believe it. The man bent forward, a hand digging into the ground with the other over his heart and he painted the cold, white grounds with crimson threads, red splatters and scarlet fragments of his heart and flesh.  
    The world was fading into gray and a cold blackness followed in pursue.

    The bells in the distance rung out, particularity loud against the moment of silence that followed.

    Silence.

    Then there was screaming. Not Mello, or Matt's screaming, but the people that had watched the gruesome scene, the shock and fear no longer lingering and causing any sort of blockage against their minds. They wailed, shrieked and ran in earnest in every direction possible.

    Then the sirens were heard in a high shrill against the darkened sky.

 

~XxX~

 

    “How is the patient?”  
    “He's breathing, sir”

    When Matt came back to the world, the first thing that he realized wasn't the emotional stress, or even the physical pain. It was how feather-light his head was, and the beeping around him clicked at a rather fast pace. Needles and tubes were connected to every inch of his skin. His eyes were tightly shut, for he'd definitely see blinding white when he opened them.  
    He was alive, for one thing. He was also breathing.  
     
    Though he couldn't see, (want to see) he still felt the world spinning around him. The drugs and bottles of liquid that pumped into his veins pinned him to reality, denying him to slip back into unconsciousness.  
    “Sir, the patient is showing signs of awareness.”  
    “In what condition?”  
    “Extremely traumatized and maybe in shock.”

    What were they talking about? Matt felt fine, but that may just be the drugs working into his system. There was a numbing pain drumming against his chest, but it was so worked through, that he didn't feel it that much anymore. Was it that terrible that he felt calm, too steady in fact? Or, perhaps it was just the drugs preventing all the negative contents into his brain? Now that he thought about it, every time he tried to place his finger on a certain thought that occurred moments before he was shot, he could not remember it- No, it was like the information was being blocked.  
     
    “Have you found the identity of the patient yet?”  
    “No, not yet, sir. We could not find a reference photo even relatively close to him, but we're running a DNA test.”  
    “Is he a Japanese citizen?”  
    “Please, sir! The patient is awake, the questioning can wait until he is feeling better. We do not know any current information about the patient.”  
    “Fingerprints? Did he have a phone on him? Were there any witnesses?”  
    “Sir! I'm begging you, we do not know. The patient is under a tremendous amount of stress.”

    There was a mumbled exchange between the two before the opening and closing of a door was heard.

    _My name is Matt. I am twenty-one years old, am I have still currently breathing. I do not understand what had just happened, no, it's like my brain doesn't want to register what exactly happened because it will probably cause my excruciating pain. There is a blank space that I cannot remember, a patch of ground wiped so clean, something terrible has definitely happened in that missing hole of my memory. I can definitely reassure myself that I had just been shot by Mello, but the fact that my mind won't register why it is causing me pain, is worrying._  
    _So, in that case, I'll just start from the top from what I know, and what I need to know. If I do not want panic, or any further stress, then I'll keep calm and even calmer until I can understand the situation thoroughly._  
    _My full name is Mail Jeevas but I have gone by Matt since the day I have gained a conscience upon this world. I was with Near (Nate River) and Mello (Mihael Keehl) for as long as I could remember, in England, in an orphanage that went by the name, Wammy's House. It was for gifted children, and L, the greatest detective in the world constantly talked to us through a computer screen; his profile picture was a complicated patterned L, that much I can remember. L, is dead now, killed by Kira, a crazy murderer that proclaimed himself as “God of the New World.” L's successors were the two most intelligent pupils living within Wammy's House: Near and Mello. I came third._  
    _Mello later became the boss of a Mafia, and Near, the Successor of L. Both worked on the Kira case for years, and me- where did I go in this whole link of entangled illusion?_  
    _No, go back, rethink this. I definitely played a role within this drama._  
     
    _I could never have been L's successor, so when one of L's men pulled me aside that night, requested that I went to the Office, and told me what I already knew; that I, being a successor was out of the question, I just told him, I already knew. What I didn't expect however, was that he told me to follow Mello, and help him along on his most desperate times._  
    _“I believe your laid back personality will help sooth Mello's fiery flames over the years,” he had told me, so seriously with those thousand year old eyes. He knew, the man knew all along that Mello was never going to be a successor, so he sent me instead, offering Mello all the little things in life that he could control, when he couldn't with the the bigger picture. In a way, I was sent to be Mello's morale support, guidance, errand boy and what hopefully became, ultimately, his friend._

_I knew, I truly knew he only kept me around, not because he needed or loved me as a friend, or other, but simply because I was there, at arms length away. Mello had been broken down into so many different layers of bitter resentment, that he had sealed himself away, even from the lightest rays of light; his heart was something so secure and locked down, impenetrable and determined._  
    _Me, being the fool I was, knew there was not a sliver of affection throughout us in any way, but I still kept with him, and let him use me as he pleased as no more than a pawn, and he thinks that I think that he actually cares about me. To be honest, I have known, always known that I would be nothing more than a tool in his belt, perhaps one of his sharper guns, but I have always hoped for the impossible; I have always hoped that I'd be more to him that just a tool._  
    _If he won't love me as a friend, or other, I'd still stick with him till the end, because I love him. If being just a tool to him, is the only reason why I can be by him, I'll take it, and be by him by that cost._  
    _The moment that I had been secretly assigned to “comfort” Mello in the worse days that were yet to come, he became more than just a task, more than just another assignment to me._  
   _I wanted to be his friend, know his aches and fix them, like how I could fix his weapons, tame his temper, and everything- everything else._

_Now, I remember that night when he let me touch his shoulder, it was not a sign of acceptance, but a sliver of guilt. He had only let me so psychically close, not because he wanted to, but because he wanted me to believe that he cared about me._  
    _On that moment, I had almost foolishness believed it was not an act but a sign, however, those images quickly shattered within my mind. I had always known that he hated psychical contact almost as much as Near, if not, even more. The unrest that flickered in his eyes that night I had told him not to worry, I saw it; I also knew it, knew he was only doing it, not because he wanted to assure me, but to assure himself._  
    _Everything had always been about Mello, and he knows it. He is insecure about his power, and I let him, I sooth those worries and doubts by giving him complete control._  
    _When he forces me on my knees and tells me that I'm worthless, and nothing more to him than just a pawn, I let him tell me that, and I don't argue with it not because his hands are in my hair, slamming my head repeatedly against a wall, or because he had pistol-whipped me so hard across the face that I was seeing more than silver lightning and crimson droplets, or because he was pointing the muzzle of his silver gun vertically to my chin but because I care about him, and I have come to a realization that this was the only way that he felt secure, through unnecessary violence and the floating dominance and power that he held through the carefully crafted acting._  
    _Even if it seemed as if Mello were holding the leash to my neck and freedom, it isn't as simple as that. In a sense, I let him hold the leash so that I'd feel as if I were holding him from the edge of decay._  
    _The things I'd do for Mello breaks the boundaries of stupidity and self-sacrifice but I don't feel it, so it shouldn't be as much of a deal as it is, right? So, this episode would be the same, I'd presume, but this rounds me down to my base question: why did he shoot me earlier than planned?_  
    _Is it to catch both I and Near off guard, to produce the best natural reaction? Is it for his sake, my sake, or both our sakes to just get it over with?_ p>

_Is it betrayal-_

    “Doctor, the patient is awake.”  
     
    Matt 's eyes fluttered open and he groaned but it came off as more of a distressed gurgle.  
    “Easy now, we don't want you to hurt yourself. It was a surprise you even lived,” came a deep voice from next to him. Matt couldn't tilt his head now that both his headache as well as his internal and external pain was starting to catch up to him. Matt found himself shivering and his hands spasming uncontrollably. The stammer that was hitched in his chest would go off whenever he tried to take a breath; it turned into a small stuttering shudder that stuck in the back of his throat.  
    “You need to calm down before you strain something. Relax.”  
    The splitting headache and the region near his heart was burning painfully, like someone had stabbed him with a white hot poker and insisted on twisting it into his flesh counterclockwise, just to pull it out and repeat the process again, in a continuous loop, eating him inside out so intensely, Matt was sure he was going to crack a tooth, that is, when he can actually close his mouth. The amount of drugs used to sooth the pain throughout the operation had shaken him, and he couldn't find the part of his brain that commanded his jaws to close and even if he did, he wasn't sure if he psychically could. A decent amount of saliva was coming out of the side of his mouth that was still tinted a rusty red.  
    Matt tried to make a noise of complaint, but it was pain constricted and shaky; it even shocked him that his body was in such poor condition.  
    “Where does it hurt?” the doctor asked sympathetically, moving over to the direction where Matt's head was rested to get a better read on his lip movements.  
    Matt gritted his teeth and flinched when the man drew close as he tried to move his arm to no avail. The hands he once had could have fixed heavy machinery as easily as he could have fixed a computer chip the size of a small coin. The current state of his hands couldn't pick up a pencil if he tried.  
    “Hurts....” Matt stuttered, forcing the shutter in his throat down to no avail, “heart.”  
    “I know, if you were shot two centimeters closer to the right, you wouldn't be here talking to me,” the doctor sighed, “I'm sorry I can't do anything about that area at the moment. The number of anesthetics you had ingested in the past eight hours is already near the limit of killing a man, I cannot give you anymore right now.”  
    Matt groaned, gritting his teeth as each wave of pain crashed against the sides of his skull like endless tidal waves.  
    “If you are feeling up to it, we'd appreciate if you gave us your name.”  
     
    “Mail,” Matt cried out as he tried to sit up, the pain in his chest suddenly detonated, blooming over half of his body in one single movement, the last syllable of his first name ending in a stifled whimper, “Jeevas.”  
    The doctor rushed over and tried to steady the redhead to the best of his abilities, but Matt was trembling like a leaf, ravaged by raw pain and hurt; no words made it past ghosting air.

_“My n- name is.... Mail Jeevas.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the chopping posting schedule, but uh, enjoy an extra chapter or two today.


	4. The Game Begins

The Game Begins

 

    _“Man by the name of Mail Jeevas has been shot on the front doors of Sakura TV.”_

    A man with snowy locks of silvery white hair and pale skin has his gray eyes unblinkingly traced upon the multiple computer screens. The man's emotionless face exposes nothing as one finger weaves into his curls, and his other hand onto the mouse as he processed the latest news from Japan.  
    This man was Near, successor L, the world's greatest detective that ever lived. With his childish appearance, white cotton pajamas and the multiple children's toys scattered within the large room, the atmosphere was a little disturbing; intelligent, thoughtful, levelheaded he was, but there was probably a screw in his mind that was loose.  
    Gray eyes flickered from screen to screen as he's gathering the evidence that he needs for a lead. The dark circles under his eyes indicate the lack of sleep, of the nights of searching through pixels. His view darts to each monitor one by one, but he's debating as he keeps pulling up the same piece of information he's trying to prosecute.

    _Mail Jeevas. Less than ten people on this world knew his true name, but what is bothersome is the fact that he is still alive. Supposedly shot by the police force that worked for Kira one year ago, but these prints are as true as it can possibly be._  
    _Mail Jeevas, Mail. Matt._  
    _There is a chance that this could have been fabricated by anyone who knew Matt's true name, but taken into consideration that witnesses that had described Matt's appearance had all hit the psychical traits of that man, it would be at least considered, or put under suspicion that if Matt is alive, then Mello is still alive._  
    _If Matt is indeed alive, then there is a chance that Mello is too, and if Mello is indeed involved, then it would be at least a good speculation that Matt getting shot had something to do with Mello. Of course, if I round this down at the end of the day, and it was indeed a hoax, then I would assume it's the second party who wants me dead. No, this brings the thought back to Matt's real name._  
    _There is no possible way that it is the second party, there is no way that they could have known. Therefore, there has to be a new, third party. Suppose, Matt, did survive the shooting, the real question isn't how he is still alive, it is why was he shot, who was he shot by, and why. I have to assume anything that can happen, and work off of that, just in case._  
    _So, if this Matt is the real Mail Jeevas, then there are a few possibilities; one being that there is third party or two, Mello is the third party. If this Matt is a fake, then it would be safe to assume it is a living person who knew about Matt's identity. It could be anywhere from anyone in the second party to a third, to even a fourth._  
     
   _If I do get into contact with this Matt and he is truly the real Mail Jeevas, then I'd be in danger. Of course, there is a heavy possibility that this is where my opponents will try to ambush, or even lead me deeper into their plan, but I have no choice; the mastermind behind this whole elaborate plot knows that there is no choice for me but to go. If I don't go now, a good source of information may be lost. Since the shooting failed, there is a good opportunity that this person, or many people, may consider retrying the same tactic to get the job done. The conceiver has gotten the his grip on the plan good, and he knows that I know that he knows that I know that this plan is aimed at me._  
    _One of the boxes under my name that had been placed for distraction had been stolen just a few days before the shooting. Matt's origins can be traced back to both mine and Mello's, and the fact that one of my distraction possessions had been taken just days before signals enough that the person behind all of this knows that I know that all this plan is set on me._  
    _It cannot be aimed at Mello, because Mello is dead, but what if, this plan was fabricated by Mello because he isn't dead? If everyone thinks Mello is dead, then Mello can only be assumed to make the plan, not have it aimed towards him._

 _Definitely something to keep in mind._  
     
    “Interesting,” Near muttered as he picks up a dart from his desk and throws it towards the opposite wall where the target sat, “there is no suspicion that you are Mello, but I just don't have enough evidence to prove it yet.”  
    The dart bounces off the target before it clatters to the ground and Near makes a “hm,” noise before he's picking up another dart, and tossing it once again, nailing the bull's eye.  
     
    _It's only a matter of time, and then I'll see who you truly are._

    Near twists a finger into his tangle of silvery white locks once again before his eyes are flickering back on the many screens, gray eyes wide and unblinking as he's lost in another concept, another thought and another possible plan and outcome. Near could almost see the result on the first courses in the game; he'd lose the first steps in the game because his opponent already has an upper edge, but he won't lose the next few, because all he needs is time right now, and because he doesn't have any to spare, he'd watch his opponent to take the first moves, withdraw from any form of action, watch his opponent watch him and lie patiently, and he'd wait even more patiently as he watches his opponent back.  
    This was a moment where patience would be worn thin, and if this was a waiting game, Near would know if it was truly Mello under all of this.  
    The Mello he knew was anything but patient, he had a nasty temper and a fiery impulse. There are still many more doubts concerning if Mello actually shot Matt or not, because Mello is emotionally attached, and he doesn't see his closest allies as pawns, but human life, while Near sees everything as a game and pawns that could be spared or discarded for the better of the outcome.

    Both parties have to be extremely careful and margin for error is slim.

 

    _There is no doubt, you are Mello, Mihael Keehl._  
     
    _I know your game._

 

~XxX~    

 

    “How long was I out,” Matt mutters through gritted teeth as the same doctor that he had met on the first day awoke him from his pain-free slumber gently, “this time?”  
    “Nine hours, Mail,” the doctor replied as he moved over to where Matt was lying down, “you feeling up to the task to sit up?”  
    “How long has it been since I've been here?” Matt asked, trying his best not to wince in pain as he slowly directed himself upwards with the aid of the doctor's support; he spoke with a slight stutter, aiming for sarcasm,“or am I actually dead or just hallucinating?”  
    “You've been here for five days,” the doctor replied, before asking lightly, “when you are coughing, are there still visible traces of blood?”  
    “Uh, no?”  
    “Are you certain?”  
    “No?”     
    “I'm just trying to help you, Mail,” the doctor sighed, before pulling Matt gently into a sitting position, “I'm not going to hurt you, please don't make this difficult on your health.”  
    “Sorry, doc, just don't feel like myself lately. Really jumpy, like, I have the feeling I might get shot again.”  
    The doctor is silent for a second and his hands go limp around the two rolls of bandages in his palms before he's returning to his usual pacing in an instant. He pushes his slipping glasses back onto the bridges of his nose before he clears his throat.  
    “Can I please get a cigarette?” Matt suddenly asked, rummaging a hand through his mane of red, his eyes held tightly shut, his teeth clenched, grimacing in pain, “when I don't smoke, everything gets a little fuzzy around the edges and both my attention span and my energy level goes down.”  
    “You know the rules,” the doctor replied sternly, before he asks Matt, “do you drink?”  
    “Nah, a couple of beers here and there, but never on a daily basis,” Matt replied almost cheerfully, before his shoulders sagged by an inch, “but energy drinks and caffeine pills on the other hand.....”  
    “Do you ingest energy drinks and caffeine pills on a daily basis?”  
    “On most nights, yea.”  
    “Do you game on those nights?”  
    “Don't need pills and energy drinks for gaming- that comes naturally. It's usually for coding and programming. Sometimes I screw over on the same algorithm three times in a roll because I can't keep my eyes open and the closest pizza is still in the fridge.”  
    “I see.”  
     
    The doctor mutters something under his breath and shakes his head. His attention returns back to the bandages in his hands and he walks back to Matt, showing him the soft fabric. Matt groans, glaring at his own hands before he raises his arms grudgingly in defeat.  
    As the doctor unraveled the particularly bloody bandages from Matt's chest, he looks thoughtfully at the bullet wound. It was still a display of broken veins and torn muscle, ripped flesh, deep and bruised, but it was healing well.  
    “Your spirit is pretty high,” the doctor noted, “I was wrong to believe that you'd surely not recover in the poor condition you came in.”  
    “Yea, death or shock isn't getting me anytime soon,” Matt told the doctor surely, almost confidently, “I know, because if the plan says I don't die, then I don't die.”

    _Am I certain about the words I'm speaking? No, of course I'm not, but as I told myself, I need to stay calm, and even calmer when I have not yet fully grasped the situation. I know that I am not certain about Mello's true motives, but I will follow along the gameplan. Though there is a flicker of doubt in the seas of unrest, I will still trust him, hoping no further harm comes my way. Perhaps, Mello shooting me early was a way to detonate the rising stress of knowing, and in the process, coaxing a perfect reaction out of me. If I stop believing in him now, it would do me no good and the shock and emotional trauma would surely drive me to suicide alone. It doesn't matter if I trust Mello, I have to trust him, and keep believing in him in order to stay alive._  
    _If my spirit wavers, I'd never be myself again; I've seen broken hope before, and I do not intend to become another one of them. I know what it's like to feel empty, both inside and out; in between. When drugs and bottles of alcohol no longer smudge inky whiteness into the darkened reality, the feeling ceasing to be crawls over at a sickening pace and the decision of begging Death for mercy becomes so touchable, but so far away. The pain of wanting death, of release, but never receiving it, because every one of those doctors, and psychiatrists, therapists, and pills force me to hang on for another day. They tell me they'd fix me, and they'd kiss away those pains and aches but they are just as wretched, because they do not understand the feeling of it all. They assume wounds just take time to heal, but does the simple concept of scars never fading ever make it past those minds?_  
   _I've come close to death many times, but only one out of those twenty-one times was even a slip in suicide. I do not intend to make this my second, because I want to live, and I have a cause to live for._  
    _I do not know if I trust Mello, but I will follow his wishes if all of this will make him feel any better. The poorly masked hurt that he constantly brings around is grievous, and if he won't let me psychically or emotionally close to him, I'll find another way in to wash away those negative thoughts and feelings at the cost of everything I can offer. Every since the Kira case, his burning determinance and vengeance only has been flamed onward. He's tasted failure more times than I can count,  even if we do not speak of it. I know, for a man so proud, it had truly shattered him._  
    _His pride like glass shards, broken and in pieces on the cold, hard ground. Even now, with his pride built up through many years of carefully crafting, it is so feeble, and so fragile._

_If he wanted one man dead, I'd blow up a whole city for him._

_Sadly, this is their battle, a battle of wits and brains; Mello and Near's little atomic age._

_If I want to stay by his side, unloved or loved, I have to be of use to him. I have to be one of his most sharp blades, deadly pistols. He's hurt, even if he's no longer bleeding and the scars so faint. He's hurt, even when I can no longer see the rusty tint of red. Every second, it has always been about the plan, the plan, and only the plan. Everything by his side serves a part in his gameplan, and if I cannot be apart of the plan, I cannot be by him._  
    It's simple, really.  
    _I understand the price I'm paying, and I will not regret a single second of it, because at the end of the day, it is all for him._

 

~XxX~  
     
     
    “Interesting,” the snowy-haired man nodded to himself, as he added another die to his towering collection of cubed architecture, “the third party has made no further moves.”  
    “N, we've got him on the line,” came a male voice from beside Near. The man's hair was blond, and his maroon suit and white tie stood out particularity well against the white. He had sharp features and he was lean, that of an athlete.  
    “Hand me the receiver,” Near spoke calmly, pale fingertips outstretched, as he took hold of the gadget. Perhaps it was just Near's imagination, but the receiver went even quieter than it had already had, even the static was faint as he reached over and received the device.  
    Instinctively, a finger reached into his sea of silvery-white curls and he wrapped the locks between his index and middle finger, his breath light, not a single hint of change in his attitude.  
    “I'm pleased to meet you at last, Mail Jeevas,” Near spoke, each word precise and clear, with a faint undertone of mock concern.  
    There was an eerie silence on the other end before Matt spoke, his voice husky and like unused sandpaper.  
    “And this is N, I suppose?” Matt replied, the rasp in his throat reflected in his words as he gave a slight cough, his dark-green eyes anticipating, the death grip he had on the phone tightened.  
    “Yes, this is.”  
    “I believe you needed a word with me?”  
    “Yes, it is about the shooting.”  
    “I'd be happy to provide answers for the world's best detective.”  
    It was Near's turn to pause, but everything was a fast, only a split second of hesitance had reached the detective and he was answering in that same emotionless and assured voice.  
    “Tell me, Mail Jeevas when and where were you shot?”  
    “N, I understand that you already know the answers to those two questions?” Matt replied, and Near could positively see the rustic tint of red at the edge of the redhead's curling lips, “didn't you mean to ask, _who is the third party?_ ”  
    Near's heart missed a beat under that collective gaze and leveled head, and he made a barely noticeable smile of his own; two could play at this game.  
    “I had come to the same conclusion.”  
    “After days of thinking, I think the possibility of a third party is extremely possible and I believe I know who the mastermind is.”  
    “I see,” Near replied, his gray eyes wide and unblinking as always, the dark circles under them thrown into sharp contrast against the  low lights, “do tell.”

    “It would be safer if I told you in person.”

 

~XxX~  
    

    Matt put down the phone with shaky hands, the shudder and tremor in his chest that he grown so use to over the days suddenly seized him, and he felt like he might be sick for a second, his green eyes wild as he scanned the empty white room, his mind panic stricken. A second passed, then a whole five minute as the redhead slowly regained most of his control, listening to the beats of his heart thump painfully against his chest, ripping at the stitches ruthlessly.  
    The knocking at the door brought him out of that terrible daze, and he answered, his throat dry and his face glazed over with a sheen of sweat.  
    “Come in,” Matt managed, gritting his teeth as he wiped away the gathered droplets that were clinging to his forehead.  
    “How did it go?”  
     
    Matt stared at his doctor with wide eyes, as he worried his bottom lip for a second.  
    “He's was demanding, and he sounded really uncaring,” Matt muttered, dropping his gaze into his white sheets, his expression near pitiful.  
    “It was my mistake to stress you so early on,” the doctor replied apologetically, “but the police force said as soon as possible.....”  
    “I understand, doc.”  
    “I hate to do this to you, but the police force needs to know your conversations.”  
    “He said, things that caused me pain so I hung up,” Matt said, looking at the doctor apologetically before whispering the words, “sorry.”

   _I have to keep this acting up. I need to keep Near close, but guessing.  I also need think like how Mello would right now. What would Mello want me to do, or would he trust solely in my instinct to unveil and sell him out after the betrayal?_  
    _If I want Mello to succeed, I can't hesitate a single second. I need to draw Near in, back into Japan where I am at so Mello could unfold his game as planned.  
    The call had put me on edge, and it was stressful; lying through my teeth was harder than I expected, and I need to change that as soon as I can so I don't screw the plan over-_

    There was an abrupt knocking at the door, and Matt looked up immediately, his dark green eyes narrowed as a husky voice behind it spoke the words that he would have never expected.

 

    _“Open the door, Mail Jeevas is under arrest of attempted murder.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter for the choppy update route. I honestly wrote it weeks back, but I, uh, sadly forgot to post it. Feel free to leave reviews and/or likes and criticism. I'd love to improve my writing potential.


	5. Anguish

Anguish

 

    _Attempted murder? No, this isn't possible; who could have known, seen or even made up such an outrageous lie? This isn't right, this is completely out of the equation- it's like someone's interfering between the two, in order to disturb what was going to happen._  
    _Damn you, Near!_  
      
    _Calm down, rethink this. I know for a fact that this could have possibly been Near's doings, but why would he be doing such a thing, if he does not have the certainty on the action? Why would he ruin what he had already gotten; his source of information and leads? So, therefor Near is out of the equation, most definitely even if he does have the power to arrest me. Also, it couldn't have been Mello, because if I were Mello right now, this would do nothing but cause the odds to slide into my arrester’s favor, and Mello already had the upper hand, why would I risk a potential leak into the plan?_

    _If it isn't Mello or Near, then it could have been the police force, for they work alone now. They have no connection towards Mello or Near, but why would they do such a thing? I, as Mail Jeevas has done absolutely nothing except to get shot days back; they have no evidence or the slightest suspicion or even empty hints that I have actually done evil in this world. It isn't likely that is a false accusation to get me to confess what supposedly little I know about my shooter. Then why? This isn't making any sense at all, I'm so baffled about what is currently happening._  
    _I, as Matt, can't let them take me dead or alive if it goes against Mello's plans, or even stray out of line. All the hard earned work may be cracked down and deciphered sooner or later; I have to stop what is happening immediately. If it even puts a slight time advantage on Mello's part (He would figure this out) then I will struggle, and delay whoever is behind for as long as I can. I can't be wronged by the path I have been set on, nor can I stray from it; that would hurt Mello, and I can't bear to fail him; no amount of his blind fist-swinging and pistol-whipping will set things right ever again. This is a second chance, and I cannot screw it up._  
    _I have to stop, or even delay this for as long as I can._

    “Stop!” Matt screamed, his wounded voice ending in a husky groan as the grip on his arms tightened, “what did I do? You have absolutely no right to arrest me!”  
    As the redhead was dragged out by two police officers, his mind reeled, and he felt his distress washing over him, his eyes wild like a cornered animal as he dug the heels of his shoes as best he could into the tiled ground, and began to wrench himself from their death grip, hissing and snarling like a frightened beast. His attempts were futile, but he struggled on, causing as much delay as he could possibly do; it was instinct at this point. Being forcefully dragged down the hallways triggered something in his mind, and he just had to defy it. Matt wouldn't be moved so easily, and definitely without a fight.  
    “Sir!” the doctor yelled after the two men, pieces of paperwork in his hands. He crossed over and weaved in front the two officers and Matt blocking their way,“the patient is to remain here until-”

    What happened next sent Matt’s heart to miss two beats, and his heart dropped into his stomach as the sickening feeling in his stomach churned as he saw every detail play continuously in his mind. One of the officers whipped out a gun, and the next moment he had shot it at the doctor. There was a distinct bang and sparks flew, and blood, like paint splattered the white coat of the man, as he bit his bottom lip, looking very much shocked with the offense. The doctor stood there, unwavering for a second, his expression confused, an edge of fright emerging on his features before he crumbled to his knees and fell over. Matt just stared, and felt his own form trembling uncontrollably as the body before him hit the ground with a sickening crunch, glassy eyes still open, the red puddle expanding at his feet. Then, before Matt even recognized his own voice, he was screaming like a wounded animal, a pitch too high and not his as a stream of energy found his body, setting his veins afire with hatred, anger and confusion and disgust. He did everything he psychically could to throw off his offenders; he hated their burning touch and every inch of their being. His mind had been set with pure rage, and the perfect despair to crack a man, but he didn't, instead the anger and sheer impact of it all caught him around his neck, strangling him until he was seeing blackness and white spots that danced across the edges of his vision. He panted, and clawed, thrashed and bit anything that came in range; the only thought leaking through his mind and body was that someone who had cared about him, or at least even hoped him well was dead; brutally murdered in the name of order.  
    Then, with a pang, Matt realized the metallic taste in his mouth wasn't his own imagination, but the heavy streams of blood running through his teeth and down his chin, either sticking there or overflowing down to his neck, ending upon the cold white tiles or tainting his white robes a fresh crimson. The dry heaving in his chest broke out, and he found himself unable to breath. The pure thought of it all caused him so much delirium and anxiety, the impact that had caught him around his neck turned steel sharp, into that of a metal noose, and then realization hit him. It wasn't just the feeling, the rush and disgust of it all, but it was all true, too true.  
    He was really seeing white spots, and he was really on the ground, rough hands over his nose and mouth, as they tried to silent and restrain him.

    One finally thought made it through Matt's mind and he remembered every individual word.

    _These people are no officers, I’m dead sure that these are from the  third party._

    Then he saw a streak of silver, and the lightning that followed over found contact with a hideous crunch. Immediately, half his face was washed over with red, as he struggled to see. The delicate skin above his dark green eye was torn and the fragile bone under the flesh most definitely have felt the heavy impact. Matt's mind swam, and his vision blurred in and out for a few seconds, his body in too much shock to contemplate and attempt to recollect itself as he struggled for breath, the simple notion of inhaling impossible. The shudder that he had built up in his chest over the days, that he had tried so hard to bury at bay broke, and he wasn't sure if it was himself with the pitched breathing, wheezing and whimpering or it was the out of tempo thumping of his racing heart, or both; a Dead Man's Symphony.  
    It was painful, and the thought that he been pistol-whipped was wrenched out of his mind as he felt the sudden urge to vomit, for whatever reason, that emotionally seized him.

    Matt finally, thankfully, mercifully slipped out of consciousness as his heart gave one last defiant lurch, throwing itself against his ribs, before a weak tempo took over, his body and mind unable to register the intensity of it all.

    _System overload._

 

~XxX~

 

    Mello hates Near. Near, on the other hand, likes Mello.

    It's odd, isn't it?

    Mello hates Near, but Near likes Mello.

    It's simple, really.

    Mello hates Near because they are so different; one, too robotic, the other, too emotional. One came out on top, the other, ceased to exist. One gained everything, including the consequences of the aftermath, while the other, held on, waiting for detonation.  
    Both are still alive, and what had stopped Mello from straight up murdering Near is gone now (Kira), making Near the only one on Mello's priority list. Near, on the other hand acknowledged the fact that Mello hated him, but simply couldn't care enough to do anything about it; after all, the Kira case had seeked out all of his attention.  
    Mello hates Near, but he won't kill Near before he knows it, no. If Mello just bluntly killed Near, then there would be no satisfactory in the victory. Mello wanted Near to realize that he had won, and the acknowledgment that he got in the end would be everything that made the sufferings worth it.

    Matt likes Mello, but his opinions on Near have always been neutral.

    Matt would and has always had sacrificed everything for Mello, not because he supports the bitter man's beliefs or ideas, but because Mello means more than just a friend to him. Or, he just couldn't give more than two craps about the situation and played a role because he could, not because he had to and the idea of losing his life was both thrilling and hilarious.

    Near likes people in general, even if he never shows it.

    Mello does not like people, therefore he doesn't reach out to them. Matt does not count, because he is an extension onto Mello's very being.

 

    Near's contemplated suicide because he's had time to stop and think in his inhuman deducting skills, and has experienced enough to undergo his passing. Mello simply never stopped and thought about it, because when there was a plan, he'd always go deep; he'd either finish it completely, or never start it. Also, it was complete idiocy to him; as long as person who committed suicide wasn't one of his men, then he wouldn't even raise an eyebrow, or even consider putting down his chocolate bar to begin with. It was a sign of weakness, of admittance and defeat. Matt, on the other hand, didn't have a reason to even put a finger on the world suicide; the man liked living in the world of his videogames and the occasional thrill of a life on the run but he satisfied easily in general, a little too easily in fact, and when there was one thing he couldn't get, he settled for seconds.  
    Near's never killed anyone, Mello, plenty, and Matt, none.

    Mello doesn't flinch when a body goes down, as long as it isn't him, or anyone important to the plan. Matt, on the other hand, would feel remorse even in self defense; then, he'd simply pick up a gameboy, and everything would be a blur in a few days. Near would do what was necessary, as long as he wasn't the one holding the pistol.

    Matt likes burgers, Mello likes chocolate, and Near, he doesn't care, as long as it keeps him alive.

    Mello liked milk chocolate, but later found his likings in the darker selection, for it was bother sweet and bitter: bittersweet. On the latest discovery, Matt found that freezing his chocolate beforehand made it even more delicious and rich, deliriously pleasing. The blond loved the snap it made when his teeth met the bar, and how clean it would break off and slip between his teeth, where at times would pierce the insides of his mouth, inflicting an annoyed hiss or a bark of irritation, making it seem seemingly even more worth it; a price for everything, it was only fair.  
    Matt likes burgers, and fries, but he mostly likes burgers, because he gets a taste of everything, every layer a different sensation and feeling. When he puts down his gameboy, or at times when he isn’t chain smoking packets, swallowing caffeine pills, entering complicated algorithms into his computer, running errands for Mello, or racing at lawbreaking speeds down the highways late at night on his motorcycle, he spent his time counting the amount of pickles on his burgers.  
    It was interesting, and he always made a dramatic show of it, picking off the bun like some sacrificial ritual before he counted every individual pickle slice that were beneath the sauces, lettuce and tomatoes before popping them into his mouth and replacing the bun that were sprinkled with sesame seeds.  
    When Mello asked him why he did this, the response was quite simple; “Why not?”

    Almost routinely, Mello would rage, or hold back the urge to strangle the redhead, expressing his negative emotions by throwing knives at the walls, blind fist-swing anything that came in range, or threaten him with his silver gun.  
    As unnecessarily violent the method may have been, it anchored each of the two men to planet Earth.  
    Matt was Mello's anchor to sanity.

    Mello was Matt's anchor to reality.

    But somehow..... Near was Mello's will to live; twisted into some form of cruel and messed up obsession to defeat the other; unnecessarily violent and dramatic, as per usual.

    Near did what he had to.

    Mello did what he could.  
      
    Matt did what he wanted to.

    Mello is selfish, and he knows it.  
    Matt is self-sacrificing, and he also knows it.  
    Near is suicidal, but he doesn't admit it.

    Matt is still alive because it was all planned.  
    Mello is still alive because he was fortunate.  
    

~XxX~

 

    It was hot and artificial, whatever hung above him that caused him excruciating pain in the form of burning lights and waves of flaming heat. It was sick and unpleasant, but the worst part was probably the canvas white straitjacket that constricted his upper half tighter than a corset. Matt's groans of pain were smothered, denied by the uncanny amount of saliva stored in his throat, rendering his (somewhat) silent, leaving him only possible to patiently wait for whatever met him on the other side of the metal door.  
    He shook his head once, like he was trying to shake off the mounting silence and awful confusion to no avail. His internal clock hit a certain point, and he reeled forward, like he was going to gag, but was instead was stopped by the ropes that bound him down against the metal chair that rooted itself to the concrete ground.  
    The thoughts and memories streamed through him, and Matt refound the energy to oppose, to deny, to rebel against the objections forced on his will and he struggled, feeling the bite of material against his arms and wrists, before he slumped backwards, swearing out his frustration in three different languages.  
    The negativity clouded into a bright red on the edges of his vision, like the screen of his gameboy when he was about to be overrun by zombies, and he scoffed, his heavy boots rooted in place.  
    Unable to move, Matt transitioned to other problems; he felt the dread and the fear of the unknown start creeping back on him, and Matt bit his bottom lip, willing himself to think of his situation.  
    His string of unconnected thoughts shattered completely as the metal door behind him opened and closed with a loud boom, and Matt tensed up, into a state of hyper awareness, like a deer that had just been caught in the headlights.  
    “Was that sleep pleasant?”

    Not being able to see the speaker, Matt made no move to see the man's face, but instead tried to pick up his scattered thoughts to the best of his abilities, using avoidance as a strategy to buy enough time to think up a reply if forced to verbalize.  
    “Mail Jeevas-” came the same low voice again, but this time it hit a silky danger zone.  
    “Get to the point,” Matt snapped, the arrogance in his usual lazy drawl lashing hastily out towards the other man, “what do you want from me?”  
    “This is going to be easier than expected,” the man taunted, curving around the metal chair to meet Matt's cold green eyes, “then tell me, what do you know about N?”  
      
    Matt, in the state of worrying his bottom lip, recognized the name and as a result, made a sudden motion, resulting in nipping and breaking the thin layer of skin; he felt the metallic taste well up in his already dry and raw throat, not a thrilling combination and he lashed out, in the form of misplaced words and bloody spit.  
    “Bullshit.”  
    “I'd watch your mouth if I were you,” the man growled, the silky danger in his mocking purr cut abruptly, into something noxious and sharp, “or I'd cut out your tongue.”  
    “Try me,” Matt dared, “see if you get any information out of this when I'm dead. Your boss ain't gonna be happy.”  
    “I will certainly try,” the dark man smirked, meeting the challenge, “be thankful that I'm so dedicated.”  
    The man slowly slipped out a switchblade from his pocket, made a show of it and he snapped it open in one clean swipe, waving it in front of lightly tanned skin; met with an icy stare in return that was unlike Matt's usually lazy look and posture.  
    “We'll see how much you're worth after you spill your information. Now, we can do this the easy way,” the man advanced, until he was a foot away from Matt, towering over the man, “what do you know about N?”  
    “I know nothing.”  
      
    The man stabbed downwards, a silvery-white bolt of lightning arched from Matt's shoulder to his collarbone and only after a few painfully real seconds dropped, the redhead was hissing, beginning to register what had just happened, his emerald eyes wide.

    The howls of anguish never made it past his mouth, before he swallowed it down along with all the other emotions and bloody saliva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback, I really do appreciate it. Depending how I fast I edit, I may treat you guys out to one more chapter today, because my update schedule's been crazy fast these days.


	6. Shock

Shock

 

“He's nothing more than a maggot,” Near sighed, as he knocked a die off the towering construction of cubes without collapsing the ones beneath, his gray eyes still emotionally detached, “it was only necessary that I made certain precautions against the Black Lotus.”  
    “N,” the blond man in the maroon suit spoke up, addressing Near politely, “you mean, Mail Jeevas' abduction was by the Black Lotus?”  
    “Precisely,” Near answered, slowly as he stacked one more cube onto the tower, not looking up to the least, “Mello would be furious.”  
    “N?”  
    “Yes, Drake?”  
    “Mello is....” Drake paused, looking slightly confused, “dead?”  
    “He could be,” Near answered, weaving a finger into his sea of silver, looking up for the first time in a few hours, not at Drake, but instead at the multiple computer screens, his gray eyes wide, “but there's always that sliver of chance that he isn't.”  
    “And you would know?”  
    “Just a hypothesis.”

    _The Black Lotus, the second party._  
     
    _There is no way that this abduction was caused by the second party, because the conceiver had already had the ropes, I would have just needed to create my own noose. The third party clearly had the upper advantage, it is not likely, or even remotely possible that this is his or their doing. Such a dramatic act would have only caused the tables to turn to a different party's favor._  
    _It is likely that the Black Lotus, the third party thinks that Mail Jeevas is a spy for me, or sent to obtain information from me. It is about time that the Black Lotus has gone onto the offensive press._

    _If it isn't me, or the third party, then it has to be a fourth party or the Black Lotus. It would only make sense as such, for if I were their boss, I'd want Near to know that he knows that I know that he knows I have the upper edge now. Therefore, a taunt should be expected by now._  
    _But the box, it proves two things. One, being that Mail Jeevas' shooting had nothing to do with the Black Lotus, and two, could verify Mello's existence. Mello, stealing the box is similar to that of a taunt; he wants me to know who he's going up against. No one could have entered the vault without collections of information or a certain extent of knowledge or tactics to leave without leaving a single mark. The only reason that I can assume that Mail Jeevas had and may still be working with Mello or the third party is because one of the officers had reported a “redhead breaking curfew and chucking rocks at them with a box under his arm,” many days back, near the location of the vault._  
    _Then, I can safely assume that the Black Lotus abducted Mail Jeevas when he was in the hospital, because one of the DNA samples trace trailed back to a drug dealer that had been sentenced to life in prison but went missing months before, with the Black Lotus symbol left behind in his former cell._  
    _“I'd steal that gun from you,” Mello had once said before his supposed death, “you're too coward to use it, anyways.”_  
    _A whole six years later, that same gun that was gifted by Roger went missing, but why, do I have this feeling of sneaking suspicion, that Mello didn't get there first? It feels like, the pattern is off, like someone had gotten to the gun replica before him. Leather box, leather bindings, glass protection, and that white handled gun replica. I'll run a quick analysis, and find out later, that isn't the most important detail on the list at the moment._  
    _The task at hand; where has Mail Jeevas been taken to?_

    _So, it has been concluded that it must be the Black Lotus' doings, I just need to wait a little longer now._

    “N,” Drake spoke, pacing over to the pale man, “there's an incoming message.”  
    “I understand,” Near spoke, expecting this, “bring it up.”  
    “There's no traceable ID or anything.”  
    “I know, I understand.”

    The blond man in the maroon suit strides over to the computers, and taps a few buttons, pulling up the contents.

 

    N, you must know that I have taken Mail Jeevas and you must also know that he will not be returned alive unless we finalize on an agreement.

    If you join forces with us, we will find the shooter of Mail Jeevas for you, but first you must agree to come to China. If there is an agreement of a temporary peace treaty between us, I can send one of my men to the Chinese airport. The address and location will be given after you prove to me of our non-aggression agreement.  
    If you agree, then publicly announce that you, the successor of L, will personally take on Mail Jeevas' shooting case.

 

    You have seven days to decide your answer.

     
    

                                                                                     Black Lotus

 

    Near stares, two pale fingers tangled with his snowy locks of hair, his eyes wide and unfocused for a second, before he retreats from his architecture of die,walking over to the computer screens and climbs into his chair, leaning back before he exhales, picking up a dart from the desk, his eyes flickering to Drake for a second, willing him to move out of the way.  
    “N,” Drake spoke, “what-”  
    _-clunk._ A dart hit the opposite wall, narrowing missing Drake before it bounced off the surface, and a second dart came flying by.

    Clunk.  
     
    “Impossible,” Near stated, throwing another dart at the target, his gray eyes unblinking, the dark circles under the gray brought through in sharp contrast with the full lighting of the white room, “but also, as expected; Mello is taking back his throne.”

    _Mello, I know you are the third party, but why, why did you take the gun in that box? It could have just been a taunt, to further emphasize your existence, but why would you do such a thing if you are willing yourself to be so hidden?_

    _What are you thinking?_  
     
    _Are you thinking what I'm thinking, the same exact thing?_

 

~XxX~

 

    The words in Matt's throat clogged, and he groaned in pain as he cracked open his good eye, the other still heavy and patched over with broken veins and semi-dried blood from earlier.  
    He had received a few more bruises throughout his body that were now tinted an ugly purple, completed with a smear of eggplant yellow and a brush of rustic red. His chin was still matted and caked, his head still spun.  
    Matt's head was a dizzy mess as he attempted to push himself to his feet, before remembering that he was still bound stiller than statute to that metal chair. He tugged at the restraints and he found his body complaining, screaming for him to stop whatever that he was doing because it hurts, stings, and everything in between.  
    No doubt, the redhead wants to reach his hands up to his face and feel his fingers stick, bound over by the half-crusted layer of tissue, broken veins and cracked skin just to verify, for the satisfaction of knowing those wounds are very much real and this was very much reality, rather to tell himself that he was going to surrender to the hideous truth staring him down; he certainly felt at Violence's mercy, but until his defiant heart stops lurching, he will not submit in the face of violence.  
    Matt reminded himself that he was only at Hell's gates, and that he needed to brace himself for the harsh journey that was yet to come; there was going to be more pain, no doubt about it.

    Cold, metallic doors and jagged walls; empty darkness, windowless surfaces, static-filled voices-  
    _-voices?_

    _Thump._

    _There goes my heart again, still beating? Great. Still alive? Verified. Body still intact? Correct._  
    _Come on now, Matty, stay alive for all that is unholy. C'mon Matt, stay alive because you can. Come on Matt, it's just a few punches, stay sharp. Oh please, Matt, stop being so whiny, you can handle it. You've felt worse and seen worse, right? Stay conscious, don't slip out like you almost did the first time around._

    “I will give you one more chance,” repeated the man, the growl now audible in his throat, “what do you know about N?”

    _It's just a hallucination, ignore it. Ignore the problem and hope it doesn't bite later. Just pretend that it isn't there, even if it does stink in here._

    Matt gritted his teeth, his mouth clamped firmly shut, his expression as defiant as ever. In the sweltering heat, his bloody wounds felt as sticky as ever, and he couldn't shake off the uneasiness that constantly clutched at him. The redhead exhaled, panted, before noticing how dry his throat was.  
    Then, he suddenly tensed, his body stiffened, and he craned his head to see behind him as hot, stale breaths breathed down his exposed neck.  
    “I warned you, we'll do it the hard way then. How does this sound?” the man leered, the expression on his face almost triumphant, like he had won some kind of sick bet, “I'll take this knife and stab it into your flesh, and until you answer, it'll keep coming.”  
     
    Matt panted, and his breath came in an uneven clump before he swallowed it whole.

    “We'll start with the arms and gradually reach your back.”

    The man moved around, so he was facing Matt now, his sneer exultant, like he finally found a way to make the man speak. He raised the knife slowly, and flashed it in front of the redhead's face dramatically, before he traced the desired pattern across the man's cuffed arms, not digging down, but barley teasing, like he was testing the waters, flicking the blade back and forth across the delicate skin (the straitjacket had been removed minutes before, but was replaced with rough rope), poking lightly, pressing down ever so gently; in mock concern.  
    “Now, what do you know about N?”  
    When Matt refused to answer, the blade sliced downwards, breaking skin, and the man drew the knife inwards, towards himself. He watched gleefully as a trail of red awakened in the path's wake and he pressed down further to emphasis his mirthfulness. Matt hissed, unable to keep the noises to himself, as the man took his sweet time, even going as far as to retrace the same wound so it dug deeper.

    “I don't know!”  
    “Wrong answer.”  
     
    The knife bit deeper, further emphasizing on the same cut before it was wrenched free, and without another sparing second, it was replaced on a different location of the arm, barely inches from the first.  
    “What do you know about N?”  
    Matt groaned, trying to move away from the menacing weaponry to no avail.  
    “Got to use your words.”

    The onslaught kept coming, each wave even more gruesome than the last, each motion and cut went deeper and deeper, almost touching bone, until Matt couldn't bear it anymore.  
    Both his arms were laced with fire, and it burnt and stung. Saying it hurt was a far fetched understatement; saying that his arms felt like they might fall off was closer to the truth. When he looked down, the only thing he saw were streaks of blackish red cuts that obliterated the lightly tanned skin. It ran bone-deep and just the thought of it made him sick and the redhead nearly sent his gag reflexes over the edge. If not for the burning defiance and determination that thundered through his veins strained him back to reality and fueled him with a dose of the complete despair, he may have just accepted admittance right then and there.  
    And a broken scream escaped his lips, the suppression bonds of his will that should have broken long ago snapped, and he writhed around in his restraints, thrashing like an animal, his green eyes shrouded in pain and disgust and everything in between as he spat outwards, too numbed by the pain to make any profanic exchanges.

    It was only when the blade sunk deeper, that abruptly he stopped his screaming, his blood frozen and his stomach churned as the blade under his flesh started to rotate, drilling deeper like it was trying to carve out a chunk of his body (which was quite literally what it was doing); it was only then that he found his voice an octave too high, hissing out the words that so dauntingly betrayed him, and watched it in desperation as it slipped through cracked lips and stained teeth.

    “H- he was a pupil at Wammy's House,” came the traitorous words, and Matt saying it, felt the citric in his mouth overflow, tasting nothing but bitter resentment and shattered defiance as he writhed against his impossible restraints, like he still had a say in this matter; and he kept struggling, as if, if he kept on going, there may be an end to this misery. In a sense, Matt still considered that in time he would regain what he had lost, that he would not have. He still foolishly believed that there was an end to his eternal Hell.

    “See?” the man cooed, “that wasn't so hard.”  
    “Bastard.....”

    The blade made a sudden turn and Matt howled, bloodied spit and curse words flew as the blade was wrenched ruthlessly from his shaking body. It was only then, that Matt found his body shaking heavily and his voice a stuttering mess of pitches and whimpers that he tried to bring a hand to his mouth to silence the pathetic, transparency of his sufferings.  
    It felt as if raw nails dug into every inch of his arm, and it felt like he was being slit open with broken glass, bathed in red salt and shredded down like a slab of meat ready for carving; it didn't occur to what he did, just that fact that he'd do anything to make it go away, to make it stop for all it was worth.  
    The cloud of hurt that constantly massaged at his brain was splitting his world down the center with blissful excoriation.

    _Matt, don't forget your promise to Mello. You love him, remember?_  
     
    The knife relaxed again, and it was being pressed into his shoulder blade, and Matt had the horrific image of the metal being dug under the bone, wrenching it up with sinews and tendons and muscles and tissue- and the scream he issues was horrific enough to vanish the vengeful spirits and scare away the banshees. Matt found himself thrashing once again, the knife barely even applying pressure, but the man was in a sorry state, desperately trying to get away what would come next, shaking and shuddering, wailing, the rattle in his core sending him into overdrive; nothing mattered, other than the fact that he needed it to stop, that he didn't want to be hurting anymore.  
    Against his will, the onslaught came once again, the blade shredding down every protesting mess that was his body, strained beyond recognition.  
     
    _You love him, remember?_

    Matt clamped his mouth firmly shut, pathetically trying to trap in the admittance and saliva, trying to locate any ways to take his mind off the inhumane truth; even the simple state of thinking was blacked out, dislocated by the crippling distress. His muscles lost its fight, and his body screamed as suddenly, instinctively there was a ripping noise from all around, but Matt, too hazed by the torment, didn't want to know what was going on, kept going, dwelling on his self-pity and guilt as calloused hands suddenly found his good shoulder and wrenched him mercilessly upwards from the metal seat, throwing him across the room, where he laid on his face, in a crumpled heap, panting, retching and whimpering, but saying nothing, what was left of his touched pride oozing onto the concrete floor in a wash of scarlet purple and Matt swear he saw it, through lights and sounds that it gave one uneven pulse before it cooled, hardening into an inconsistent mash of brown.  
    He was almost sure the silvery white of the floor was stained by now.

    In the far distance, boots echoed down the floor and towards Matt, but he was too delirious from the pain to decipher what it meant, or care for that matter and his eyes shut desperately, his grip on thin air tightened and the strain on his wounds crawled; he begged for senseless blackness, to fall unconscious, but it did not come for him.

 

~XxX~

 

    Somewhere out there, lounging on a leather chair, Mello sat, savoring the crunch of a piece of recently frozen dark chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling merciful- uh, updated quickly, so here you are. The crazy update schedule's got you guys a lot of chapters in a short period of time.


	7. A Change of Plans

A Change of Plans

 

    Some internal switch simply flicked off and his survival mechanism activated so that when it became too much, he could detach himself from the horrors of reality; Matt kindly excused himself from the realism of it all.  
    Matt was now floating, hovering, whatever part of him that stayed emotionally conscious, that allowed him to feel, left his mangled body behind, only to glance back down at his broken form, bloody and bruised; twitching and spasming rapidly, hyperventilating and in shock with his eyes shut tightly, curled inwards into the fetal position, panting and on the verge of tears. He looked absolutely pathetic, endearingly submissive in the face of violence.  
    The brutality shambled on, endless and eternal as the ticking in Matt's mind crawled onwards, but he no longer felt, or heard, tasted, or cared. Matt knew, vaguely felt the knife scrape down his back, but it was far away, an almost annoying breeze in the far past.  
    As the redhead glanced down at his form, he didn't feel guilt or even shame, loss of dignity or disgrace, or even pity. He simply observed the scene spread out around him, detached and cold, like his conscious and the parts that let him feel.

    And suddenly, he was no longer _there_ anymore.

    His mind moved on, grasping onto any blissful memories he could process, and Matt simply drifted away.

 

    “Matt, _Matt!_ ”  
    “I'm....” Mat muttered, his world spinning, his body feeling like it was attached to a separate axis, a different gravitational pull; too heavy and vaguely there.  
    “Goddamn it, Matt!” screamed a voice from above, furiously shaking his shoulders, savagely tugging like he wanted to rip out Matt's flesh, “God _damn_ you, Matt!”

    And Matt froze, every fiber of his being tensed and his heart doubled over.

    “Mello?”

    “Goddamn it, Matt!” Mello screamed, shaking the redhead again, his blue eyes wild and seething with rage and, and _fear_.  
    Matt frowned, he's never seen Mello so shaken up before; unstably angry, sure, but not like this. This was fear. He's even seen Mello in a candy shop, but never, Mello never sounded like this. Something was definitely wrong.  
    “Oh my god, my god.”  
    “Mello, what-”  
    Mello suddenly caught the man around the neck, pulling him close, unnecessary violent, furiously tearing at the mane of red as he embrace him protectively.  
    “I will fucking make them pay,” Mello whispered into his ear, gloved fingers keeping his body pinned to blissful warmth.

    Matt would have just smiled then and there if he hadn't been so confused; perhaps, it was worth it after all.  
    “Mello,” Matt breathed with some difficulty, unable to keep the joy to himself, “what's wrong?”  
    “What are you laughing at, you fucker?” Mello demanded, shaking furiously, “are you hurt?”

    Matt winced, hurt was an understatement, but he wasn't about to blurt that out loud. This was one of the most memorable moments of his life; he meant something more than just a pawn to Mello at the moment. He finally succeeded, this was it, he had proven it, and Matt saw in the blond's eyes; Mello knew he couldn't deny it if he wanted to.  
    “How many times did they shoot you?” Mello demanded, his blue eyes wide and unseeing, clouded over with hazes of red.  
    “Mello.....” Matt trailed off, his voice like unused sandpaper, “they didn't shoot me.”  
    “Oh my god, you dumb fuck, what the hell?” Mello screamed, his voice rising, “the police force freaking shot you, all of them did and- and they just tossed your body away. Kira's dead. It was all over the news.”  
    Matt wasn't sure if Mello was inferring to his shooting or Kira's death, or both.  
    And Matt froze, his heart missed another beat as it rolled into his stomach, where it seemingly increased the dead weight by ten folds.  
     
    _No, no. NO! This isn't possible, this scene, this memory that I couldn't remember, this isn't present time, this was last year, during the Kira Case when I was shot to death. Mello had screamed at me, but I couldn't remember what he said because everything hurt, it hurt._

    “Mello,” Matt attempted to reason, knowing full well that he didn't even have the luxury to fool himself, rasped, his throat burning and unused, “remember the plan? You needed to shoot me, so you could somehow defeat Near? Remember that?”  
    “Matt, what are you talking about? You're hallucinating.”  
    “No,” Matt stated, feeling the sting on his eyes, his mangled body screaming, “it’s been one day since the Kira case has ended?”  
    “Matt-”  
    “Tell me,” Matt insisted, what little fight he had in his shaking fingers grabbed onto Mello's jacket and he croaked, but it sounded more like a distressed gurgle; a plea.  
    “Yes.”

    “Oh.”  
     
    _I'm hallucinating. This isn't real, I'm still there, still captured and being tortured. My mind has simply found a way to twist a forgotten memory into something so real and cruel; this isn't fair, am I going insane? Finally?_  
    _That night, when the police force shot me, I should have died, most definitely, but how did I survive? I vaguely had the intuition that my body had been tossed into an alleyway as the police force gave chase, trying to pinpoint where Mello had gone. Mello must had doubled back around in the mornings to get me, but I should have died. I had been shot more than twelve times._

    _Mello had said something about writing my name into the Death Note._  
     
    _How. Why?_

    “Mello,” Matt breathed with difficulty, finally understanding his situation, but unable to not want to leave it, the pain on his face unmasked, “wake me up.”

    _I don't want to wake up, but I have to. There is unfinished business, still a promise to keep. These thoughts, my own thoughts, they've become clipped and fleeting, morphed into a string of uneven words._  
    _Am I losing my grip?_

 

~XxX~

 

    Mello sat, glaring threateningly at a computer screen, the chocolate bar's foil scrunched between his gloved hands, then, an overdue and distinct crack was heard and the man dropped the bittersweet onto the tiled ground, fragmented from his death grip into tiny little pieces as his rage surfaces onto the physical world in the form of a flashing streak of black-lightning, a precise right-hook, sending the nearest small table into the wall, broken, even before moment of impact.  
    Mello huffed, whether from anger, or breathless from the burn on his knuckles, he sits, unfiltered rage barely on the brinks of overflow.

    _Idiot!_

    _The plan, the perfect plan, scattered by nothing more than a maggot. I should have expected it, I should have expected the unexpected, but I had been all too caught up in the elaborate plan, foolproof against Near, but so mockingly easy from an outsider. One of my best, and only pawns has been wiped off the map, exiled into an unknown region of the game for an unknown period of time._  
    _The infuriating thing, it wasn't even Near's doing, I'm dead serious. I'm precisely sure about that deduction, because, Near, even when he has the short end of the stick, he would have done it “civil justice.” Perhaps, he could have abducted Matt, all reason of fair play lost to the wind, but it isn't likely. If we were to play this game unfair and full of loop holes and in and outs, it would not good for him, and it will serve him no winning edges, so he would have to keep up his acting until that final moment._  
    _I'm almost certain that I can overthrow the Black Lotus by this month. If they are going to stop me, or attempt to block me from my victory, then I'll simply wipe them off the map. I know that Coyote knows that I know that he knows that I know that I have complete control; too much power. One more false move from them, and I can easily destroy them at the snap of my fingertips._  
    _Coyote, though I do not know his true profile, or identity, I'm certain that he is the boss of the Black Lotus, where about one fourth had once came from the same organization as I. If my deductions are indeed correct, which there is complete accuracy to the thought, the Black Lotus would temporary truce with Near. Given that I gave them seven days to make up their minds, to either release Matt, or to face my wrath, there came no reply. It would only seem correct that they held off until the very last second to reject or accept my peaceful offer, the loathsome cowards._

    _Now, I have to wait patiently; though I've always despised moving slowly in any context, I have to, for the sake of the plan. I can't do anything at the moment, it would be better if I didn't act rashly, it would be simply the lesser poison to lie in wait._

    _Now the countdown to Hell begins._

    _Six more days._

    Mello spat, disgusted both with himself, his foolishness and at Near, though the snowy-haired had done nothing to provoke him just yet. It had all been the Black Lotus, but it was simply easier to direct one's anger onto another who they hated equally so. So be it, and Mello let loose a string of profanity in a mixture of Russian, Japanese and a hint of English.

 

~XxX~

 

    Coyote paced around, clearly livid as the Mafioso muttered senseless things. The strings that pulled at Coyote nagged impatiently at the back of the neck, and the Mafioso scoffed; what could they possibly do about the situation? The criminal could almost feel the seeping regret; they shouldn't have lashed out, so irrationally. Now, they were forced into a corner by both parties, in which it was unable to decide which was the lesser poison.  
    The Black Lotus could either be destroyed by him, obliterated senseless, blown sky-high, or by N, mockingly slow, drunken into oblivion that gnawed away at their wavering confidences, paced and certain; either choices didn't sit quite well with the Mafioso.

    Slowly, out of all the confusion, Coyote grinned a crooked smile, assured.

    There was always a plan, and the Mafioso had one one in mind. In fact, it had been launched into action less than two days ago. It was ruthless, selfish, nerveless, remorsefully exciting and shameful. If the Black Lotus had to side with N to defeat him, they would.  
    The criminal wasn't known as Coyote for just sweet nothings, and fair play. When the situation got unstable, Coyote wasn't going to simply sit there and take it; dragging someone else into the same trouble may save them; it also always twisted the knife a little, and that's exactly what needed to be done.  
    There was absolutely no way the Mafioso was dying without knowing that they had gotten the pleasure of the last laugh, so therefore, Coyote couldn't die just yet. If, Coyote had to die, the Mafioso would make sure that at least he or N would follow him to hell.

 

~XxX~

    Everything was a mass of hurt; Matt couldn't tell where one cut started and where another one ended, he just knew that his back and arms were demolished down to a brutalized slab of meat. Whenever he attempted to moved, or even stayed submissively still, that shaky, quivering and pathetically uneven breathless inhales reminded him of the transparency of his situation; the abrupt stops where breathing was impossible; it loomed over him way too often. Sometimes, he forgot to breath, and other times he simply couldn't. His lungs rasped and scraped along, managing to keep the supply of air going, but his body was off beat, the throbbing hurt, and the beat of his heart synced together way too often, confused and offset with his pitiful external respiration.  
    He had been left where he was, in a limp heap, but something was different when Matt cracked open a dull green eye, when realization hit him across the face like a miniature car crash, but he barely even felt it, let along winced at its brutality. He was seeing red, everywhere, but, that was as expected. It wasn't even that his tormentor had left the room that he cared about, but that something was different, changed. Putting his finger on it was impossible, blocked out by the glowing red hot poker of delirium. As he trembled, huddling into the ground, plentiful submissive in the face of violence, he groaned, realizing that, that was a terrible mistake the moment he tried to move his aching body. Something pulled loose, and unable to sum up enough life in him to scream, just moaned lamentably against the ground, as Matt tried his best to understand, he set himself a life goal.

    _Breathe. Inhale. Hiccup. Repeat._

    He was back to reality. Even that sweet nothing that he had experienced when passed out evaporated faster than an ineffectual dream, therefore remembering it was unprofitable, and therefore nothing had happened, nothing had changed. That fleeting moment when Mello cared, perhaps that never happened. It could have been his mind, twisting around memories to sufficient itself from the lack of motivation and hope. Perhaps, Mello had never cared in the real timeline, maybe it was just another hallucinating, like all others he's had so recently.  
     
    _My name is Matt, and I'm twenty-one. I'm alive._  
     
    _Feels like I'm dead, but still alive and kicking like yesterday. Maybe, sarcasm is a coping mechanism? Is it working? I hope so, because I sound like an idiot right now. At least my mind is still mine; still right in the head, huh? It's not like I've accepted their dominance; still psychically here, fighting for another day._  
    _And then I get this question..... Why am I so sad all of a sudden?_

     
~XxX~

    Gray eyes stared down at the many figurines displayed throughout the clustered pile. Near blinked once, just once as he reached into the mound, and dug out, with steady fingers, a figurine with orangish-blond hair, varnished over with a block of black paint from the neck down. There was a red “X” marking on the back of the figurine along with a set of transparent plastic wings and Near raised it up to the light, before he dropped his hand, letting the figurine plummet from his palms into his cupped fingertips.  
    The snowy man held on, breathing lightly, silently as he studied the piece, his expression neutral and beyond reality.  
    Through all the twilight drama that had happened, Near couldn't help but silently seethe to himself, replaying each act over and over again, searching for any possible suspicions to confirm the notion he had in in mind; trying for once to step out of the box of logic and deduction to pinpoint from a different angle, and motion to the moment of advance and progress.  
    Snowy features stared intently down at the figurine before the detective held it up the light once more, and carefully, with impossibly steady hands, plucked the two pieces of transparent plastic from the body. Near did it easily, cautiously as he wedged out the light shapes and let it gather upon the floor.

    Then, Near sat the Mello figurine down, on a clear patch of carpet before he drew back into the pile, brushed the gathering dust off of another piece before pulling out one with red hair with an matching X. He tucked Matt into place, half a million miles away from the first location. Near, then took out a blank one, and carelessly wrote the word, “Coyote” down the center. The snowy-haired man paused, gray eyes unblinking and wide before he sat the third piece down, next to Matt.

    The man paused, still staring into the blank walls of his study, the usual silence lingering in the quiet atmosphere before he rolled up his cotton pajama sleeves nonchalantly, letting the hidden piece slip from beneath the fabric. He slid a fourth one over, set between Matt and Mello and Coyote.  
    The fourth figurine sat, it's eyes blotted out with white ink and the past features undetectable; it had the words, “Kira,” in black ink crossed out, replaced with the initials, L.Y.  
    Near took up a black pen from the same pile, uncapped it, and crossed the initials, L.Y. cleanly off and replaced it with one single letter.

    N.

 

    _I'll risk it, if it's for the greater good; for the plan. The announcement that I have taken on Mail Jeevas' shooting case should be live by tomorrow. I'll take a plane to China on the seventh day, then transition to the next step, and if the deduction is indeed correct, then there should be no causalities, however, to be safe, I will be bringing an object I have never thought to touch._

    _I will be bringing Roger's gift, the pistol with the white handle._

 

    _I will only need one bullet for the act._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback, I'm very thankful for it.
> 
> Got any guesses on what Near is going to do with the gun?


	8. Hysteria

Hysteria

 

   
    It was the seventh day; the day of the agreement. The announcement that N was taking on Mail Jeevas' shooting case was met with confusion by the whole of Japan and it had been all over the news for days. They couldn't believe that N would be taking on such a mediocre lawsuit compared to the grander ones he had resolved before.  
      
    He stared ahead, a finger in his tingle of silvery-white locks as he studied nothing in particular. Near was airborne, and he couldn't control that one single droplet of his emotion that leaked back into his mind. This was the first and last time in nineteen years that Near was traveling alone, and he couldn't help but take a step back from all the logic and assured confidence, that for once, he couldn't control the outcome of his situation. Of course, his plan was flawless but, if the public airplane decided to catch on fire, Near couldn't do anything about it; and therefor making his whole elaborate plot useless.  
    The only difference between his attire back at his headquarters and in the public, was that he had a pair of plain sneakers which were forced upon his will by Rester. Of course, he could have denied this kind offer, but, seeing that there would be no positive outcome, and perhaps more trouble without the shoes, he simply nodded, and slipped them on.  
    Near had been on the plane for a little more than two hours, and the lady next to him had already shot him approximately twenty-one odd looks. Near could have cared less, and he doubted that she knew who he was; like L, he did not reveal his profile easily and only a group of the most trusted associates knew about him.  
    With his untamed locks of silvery-white hair and childish appearance, not to mention the painful height, he couldn't blame the lady if she thought that he was not above the age limit to travel alone; even mad, and perhaps he was.  
    With the wailing children four rows away and the extremely loud snoring a seat behind, Near could almost see his zone explode; and he silently made a note to himself to cut Drake's pay when he got back. The bastard had “accidentally” forgot to order first class tickets when Near had specified.  
    Drake was loyal, and he never let a problem slip, but Near couldn't say he enjoyed the man's sarcastic tendencies. Drake was probably one the few who could push the boundaries when it came to orders. The man never slipped up, he was always on top of the situation, but he seemed to have always wanted to test Near's patience.  
   
    His thoughts were abruptly cut short, when the lady next to him spoke up.  
    “Dear, where are your parents?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.  
    Near stared up at her, the dark circles under his gray eyes quite noticeable. Now usually, Near found questions that did not relate to a plan or a game absolutely ineffectual and unprofitable but he decided to humor her, just this once.  
    “They're dead,” Near told her, without missing a beat, reading her mind before she could answer, “and no, my hair isn't dyed. It's natural.”  
    The lady gawked at him, like she couldn't believe this teenager; she was almost certain that she kept her emotions hidden impressively well.  
    Near blinked up at her once, an analytical eye traced upon her brown ones.  
    “Now you're wondering how I know,” Near breathed, touching the cuff of his white shirt once, “though it was mediocre, I saw from your micro-expression that your concern is real, but I do assure you that I am above the legal limit to be traveling alone.”  
   
    “That was impressive,” she said, unable to think of something else to say, suddenly feeling intellectually challenged by the supposed boy.  
    “I suppose it was,” Near said flatly, this conversation was barely even intellectual, let alone interesting, “and your name is Angelina Laverty.”  
    “How did you know?” she asked, dumbfounded.  
    “Ma'am,” Near stated, “it says on your business card.”  
      
    When the woman began blindly searching for the card, and Near stared, a flake of disbelief on his frosted features.  
    “The card is hanging around your neck.”  
   
   
~XxX~

   
    Matt laid where he had slumped, too weak to stay conscious for long; there was the constant pressure on his chest and body that slowly crushed him to nothingness. The dull buzzing came for him again, and barely registered senses made it across his mind. His body was in so much pain that he no longer felt the full force of it; only a lingering numbness resided, eating away at the discontinued pain. Matt cracked open a good eye and watched as his hands spasmed, almost sure that if even if he could move, the solidified pool of dark-red beneath his body would keep him pasted to the concrete ground.  
    His first tormentor came back day after day, but then, there also came a boy. He fed him, or attempted to feed him as his body rejected the foul liquid, turned to lead citric in his mouth. Honestly, Matt almost felt sorry for the boy, if he didn't feel so depressed about himself. At one point in time, the boy had gotten the porridge down his throat through coaxing, but his body had just rejected it as easily as it had with so many other things. The moment that the boy got up and left, he had vomited the contents all over himself and the ground.  
    They no longer needed ropes or chains, or blunt force to keep his from escaping. Matt was content to stay submissively still against the concrete. Though, on the surface, free of his suborn pride, or what little pride he had, they couldn't break him. They tried to extract information through as many means as they could have thought of, but they couldn't, no matter how violent the procedure was.  
    His most severe wounds had been bandaged over to stop the blood flow. If they didn't do so, Matt would have died, and they still needed him. The other wounds, were simply left exposed so the redhead could dwell on his self-pity and hurt; after all, wasn't that half the point?  
    Maybe it was just Matt; perhaps, in his world of despair, he desperately hoped for a turn for the better, that he wouldn't admit to himself, how severe and brutal his situation was. In his mind, he was still there, but Matt simply sounded so broken on the outside. It was either the redhead would not admit it, or perhaps he no longer knew; each day melt into night in a haze of blood. The constant rhythm of brutality never stopped, or rested on his failing body.  
    Through all honesty, Matt didn't think twice of what he was muttering, it was just that when he did, the pain decreased by a fraction, and because it worked, Matt kept on using it; there was no shame to the act, no loss of dignity. Something primal had switched on, and the act for survival defeated all other emotional sequences. (PleasestopohgodI'msorrypleasestop)  
    Matt wouldn't admit he was in shock, but his body tells otherwise. He had started to question his sanity when his string of words was a pretty mess of thoughts, they've become so clipped and fleeting, morphed into a string of submission and an act for mercy.  
   
    Every inch of his being was either broken or bleeding, but his mind simply clicked that, he, as Mail Jeevas, as Matt, was not going to usher a single word about Mello or Near. This thought contorted and modified into Matt's very being, and in his mind, he could no longer reveal this information if he wanted to because it was beyond Morales, it was something so unspeakable, that he couldn't even think about the treacherous act; locked and chained away, into the deepest corners of his heart and body.  
   
    _Please stop, oh god. I'm sorry, please make it stop. It hurts, please. Please stop. Oh no, oh no, oh god, please. Please, I'm begging, make it stop. Oh god, please, it hurts, make it stop, please. Please stop. It hurts, it- hurts._  
   
    “What do you know about N? You stupid thing!”  
      
    _P- please stop, make it stop. I- it hurts, it hurts._  
   
   
    _“Please....”_  
   
    It wasn't even a verbal plea anymore, those words became hot-wired to the redhead's brain, and it was an instinctive fight or flight act to breathe those words, to mutter them under his breath, like a prayer to the God Matt didn't believe. When his voice finally died, too hoarse, too clumped over to understand, he whispered single words with no beginning or end.  
      
    At the end of the day, through all the stubbornness, he still didn't believe he was in shock, that he was going insane; just hold on a little longer, Matt told himself, excusing his tired mind from reality.  
   
    When really, there was nothing to hold on to. He was too damaged to recognize.  
   
   
~XxX~  
   
   
    As the plane touched down, Near's heart slowed a beat, before his heart rate returned to normal. The unexpected roughness of the landing had truthfully caught the man off guard; it was unlike the smooth transition of his private jet that he's only experienced twice. Near would have preferred the solitude of the private jet, where there was no painstaking noises or other buzzing annoyances, but for the good of the plan, Near had endured himself a few hours of the cramped space of a public plane, where it was a little more inconspicuous but a little more self-sacrificing.  
    It wasn't that Near hated people, or had a higher taste; it was just straight up bothersome when huddled into the same spaces as more than four people he didn't know and forced to respond verbally when it was obviously useless beyond belief. It was also loud, very loud; deafening and obnoxious. Near isn't sociable, and he doesn't pretend so; though he yearned at the moment for Drake to be here. The small suitcase that was stuck just out of reach over his head was starting to faze him. After a minute or two of adjusting, and another worried glance from the lady, Angelia Laverty, Near's suitcase touched ground, and he pulled it along, unused to the sensation.  
    There was a vague whispering behind him, and gray eyes widened, and Near zoned in on the sounds, without turning around like he noticed; he stood plentifully still, hunched slightly over the suitcase where his hands grabbed onto the handlebar like a cane. It was now that Near began to wonder, if the white gun was indeed tucked safety in the suitcase.  
    Rester had managed to fake an identity for him as well as gotten the gun over all the metal detectors and the constant searching. It was ingenious, really; Near would not have concealed the firearm any differently if Rester had let him pack it. (Obviously, the bastard didn't trust him with the gun, after he saw him studying the pistol with high interest and an almost smile. Thinks he's suicidal, that one)  
    As the snowy-haired man honed in on the voices, he caught the words, “fashion,” and “limited-edition,” and “eye shadow pallets,” the detective decided to drop his concentration for the better.  
    As Near got off the plane, and stepped onto the Waiting Center, he couldn't help feel a tingle of anxiety creep up on him. The detective would have preferred solving cases through the security of his headquarters than to be the bait, hands on condition.  
    Snowy features scanned around the sea of people, trying to find the person he would meet. No doubt, the man sent to see him would spot him at first sight; Near was out of place, covered from head to toe in white, looking colorless and flat, but brought out with that singular block of color by the sea of rainbow. The detective had his two hands on the handle of his white leather suitcase, wondering how long it would take.  
    He didn't have the patience for this, honestly.  
   
    Then, he spotted her, pacing over to him, with endless grace in her steps, her chin held high, a stance that of a duelist and also of an empress.  
    She had chest length black hair, dark eyes and pale skin. Her black suit made her look impossibly menacing and in control and her eyes never wavered from his, and she stepped through the crowd with a black purse on her shoulder, and her other hand occupied with an unlit cigarette. Near knew she was the person sent by the Black Lotus the moment she spotted him, because she didn't waver once, having her dark eyes locked onto his, like a predator that had spotter prey. Her six-inch high heels snapped down the tiled ground, as she reached him, towering over the detective, looking formidable and dangerous.  
    “N?” she asked, an analytical eye on the man.  
      
    Near nodded, a clipped nod as he took a step forward, his confidence strained against his chest, now that the act was finally unfolding.  
    “Follow me,” she nodded, in fluent Chinese,“one false move, and they'll shoot.”  
    “Of course,” Near answered, just as fluently and as coldly as he felt, “and I trust that your men will not shoot me?”  
    “You can hardly call them my men,” The woman laughed, a frigid laugh before studying Near, her look sharp and dangerous, “though, they will shoot at any given moment.”  
    “I see,” Near noted, blinking up an eye to meet her forbidding glance once again, “they're Mello's?”  
    “Do not speak his name,” the woman snapped, the words harsh enough to bite flesh; it had the force of a leather whip, “inhumane deducting skills, I see. You are N.”  
    “You are correct,” Near muttered, staring down at his suitcase for a second, before his gaze flickered towards the sea of people, “and you?”  
    “Call me Terezi.”  
   
    “No,” Near muttered, gray eyes boring into the black ones, a triumphant look escaped his features, and he smiled, just a microsecond expression, but it was there, “that isn't your name.”  
    “Oh?” Terezi asked in mock confusion, “and you aren't N?”  
    “No, I am N,” Near stated, “and you, you are Coyote.”  
   
    Both stopped dead in their tracks, frozen; one with triumph and the other, admittance and expectancy.  
    “You are correct,” Coyote smirked, a lip grin of her own, the crimson lipstick and Near could positively see it stained over with rustic red in the wake of her smile.  
    “I doubt that Mello's men will shoot me,” Near stated, doubling his pace to catch up to Coyote, gray eyes unblinking, “it's you, that should be worried.”  
   
   
~XxX~  
   
   
The room was dark and cold; the feeling of unused lingered in the air.  
      
    The two stared at each other, each face empty with anticipation. The black polished table they sat at was easily as long as two cars, with Near and Coyote on each end.  
    “Thought you'd want to know,” Coyote spoke up, breaking the tense silence, before she pushed a piece of newspaper outwards, towards Near where he got up, retrieved it after a moment of tense silence and lack of action from both parties, before dropping back into his seat, “nothing comes at a price, or a fair price for that matter.”  
   
    Near stared down, his face colorless and flat as he took up the paper in one hand, the other in his tangle of silvery-white hair, the look of expectancy on his features.  
    “I see,” Near muttered, turning the paper over, scavenging for any other sort of information, “so you are framing Mail for murder. Honestly, I would have deducted that it was only an act to abduct the man, but you have further confirmed my suspicions.”  
    “Of course,” Coyote flashed Near a sharp look that could have pierced.  
    “And, the news, you sent it out when I was aboard the plan, I'm assuming?”  
   
    The pale man sat the paper down, there the bold words: “Mail Jeevas; a Murderer at Heart,” flashed outwards, like a colored flag.  
    “Of course,” the Mafioso repeated, a grin stretching across her crimson lips.  
    “So, when I do retrieve Mail Jeevas,” Near blinked once, his gray eyes wide and lost in thought, before he looked up, across the impossibly long table, “I would be forced to turn him in under the suspicion of murder.”  
    “I'm also pleased to tell you that, the Japanese police force will be interrogating him,” Coyote blinked, “not you.”  
    “Coyote,” Near sighed, “do you honestly expect that you will be let off the hook when this is all over?”  
    “No, I don't believe so.”  
    “Sixty-eight known murders by your hand and over three-hundred twenty-four in your name-”  
    “- N, do you honestly believe that I will come quietly?” Coyote whispered, “do you not think I know what I have done?”  
    “Then why would you frame Mail Jeevas?”  
    “Take a guess, you're the one with the inhumane deduction skills, N.”  
   
    “Ah,” Near muttered after a moment of two of silence, “it is because you think Mail Jeevas works for Mello. Mello has threatened the Black Lotus many times before, and killed two-thirds of your associates two years back and shot your husband. And I must conclude that the only reason that you have willingly sided with me, is to save the Black Lotus from being massacred?”  
    “Only a deduction worthy of the great detective,” Coyote mocked, leaning over the table, with a fresh cigarette smoking at the tips, “though L's always bested you.”  
    “Your hatred for Mello had clouded that clever mind of yours for a few days too many,” Near stated, like he had not heard what the Mafioso had said, “because, you're childish. You want what you want, and you always got it in the end. You knew you couldn't kill Mello, and yes, you also knew he was alive, so you locked up the next best thing; his friend.”  
    Coyote stood up, looking very much threatening, as the cigarette between her long fingers bent from the applied pressure, but Near kept going, the smugness almost seen through his emotionless voice.  
    “But you are mistaken, Mello no longer cares for his friend,” Near muttered, “because he wants to beat me, and he's playing it cautious this game. He thinks like me, therefor, there is no distress in abandoning an unneeded chest piece.”  
      
    Suddenly, Coyote pulled out a gun, gleaming and black, directed at Near's head.  
   
    “Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now.”  
    “You obviously could,” Near confirmed, unnerved by the action, “do you really think that will do you any good? I could have never decided to come here. I could have just let Mello destroy your Mafia, but I came here, not because I had to- or wanted to for that matter, but I came here to give you an easy way out.”  
    “Talk.”  
    “Your seven year old child,” Near blinked, staring into her black eyes, ignoring the shocked expression that betrayed her veiled features for the first time, “you're at a dead end, Coyote. Mello will show no mercy; there is no justice to his actions, only vengeance. I can offer you differently, I can spare your child in the name of justice.”  
    “You k- know about my child?”  
    “Certainly, I know more than you think I do, why didn't you think I investigated the Black Lotus sooner?” Near replied flatly, “and also, wouldn't you like to see your husband and organization's killer be taken down?”  
    “I....”  
    “The child, Lucy, named after the father, Luke Blackwood,” Near muttered, dropping his gaze as he once again finds interest in the polished table.  
    “How-”  
    “-Coyote. Rosetta Christ; legally changed names at the age of eighteen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late post, I simply couldn't work up an excuse to edit this chapter, so I'm sorry if you see any errors. I'll change them in a few days.


	9. Confusion

Confusion

 

    “He's in there,” Coyote smiled sharply, giving Near a look of mock concern, “though mind him, I don't think he'll speak.”  
    “We'll see,” Near replied coldly.

    Coyote swung open the heavy metal door and Near stepped inside.

    The first thing that caught his attention was the stench, the smell of sweat and blood, and rotting flesh. The door swung close behind him, but Near knew it was not locked, but with Coyote standing on the underside, planning her next course of action. The detective proceeded forward, with his ratty sneakers stuck to the bottom of the sticky flooring with each pace, making very unpleasant noises; it almost gave Near a sense of disgust, but he reminded himself that it was nothing more than a game, and he had to solve it for the greater good so he endured it for the time being. He also realize that the ceiling was low, and the area was very claustrophobic and compacted; suffocating and sending off vibes of insecurity and dread and distress.  
    Gray eyes scanned around, and Near was able to agree that the blackish stains along the concrete flooring wasn't ink, but dried blood. The man then seemed to realize the huddled heap in the far corner of the room and he advanced without a second thought, Near shuffled forward until he was looking down on the body.  
    “Mail Jeevas, can you hear me?” Near asked, his voice colorless and lacking of emotion, but perhaps, a hint of almost-concern slipped through the sea of one-thousandth I-don't-cares.  
      
    There came no sounds from the clustered heap, but upon the word, “Mail Jeevas,” the form recoiled tighter into itself, like it wanted to press into the wall and disappear from all the pain and ache. Near noted that though Matt's hair was unnaturally red, the clumps within it was most certainly dried blood. There was no recognizable features from the heap, but from the location of one dull and aghast green eye, Near could safely assume that the man had a broken nose. His face was mostly unrecognizable; mangled and cut, punched and whipped. With one of Matt's eyes swollen shut and because of poor treatment, or lack of thereof, he looked like a corpse fresh from an ancient battlefield. Also, any exposed skin; the arms and legs.... Back was near unrecognizable.  
    Knife wounds obliterated the lightly tanned skin until there was more flesh than exposed skin, each individual slice seemingly opened larger than a regular knife wound, like it had been strained to the point, where the victim had further opened or reopened it back on itself to escape the pain that had only caused him more anguish; it was a vicious cycle of endless demise and self-harm. Each cut was bone-deep, and black, with lighter red tones around the edges; some were scabbed over, and others, horrifically gruesome and infectious like it had been left there to rot, or reopened many times after, from the lack of skin to work on.  
    Near squatted down where he was almost the same height as the shivering mess in front of him. Though, he had not caught any reasonable responses from his question, he was almost sure he made out the words that Mail Jeevas babbled repeatedly under his breath. (Pleasestopohgodplease)  
    Near watched the body shiver and hyperventilate, tremble and shake and mutter unidentifiable monotones, but over all the static noises, Near finally knew- he had gotten here way too late, there was no way to completely reverse the damage that had been done.

    Panic and insecurity bounced around the room like broken echoes; reflected in various shadows of distress and conflicted shades of hysteria.

    The white-haired quickly retreated away from the sight, knocked on the metal door once, before Coyote opened it, looking gleefully murderous before she invited the man out, the usual confident drawl back on her features.

    “He's nothing but a disadvantage now,” Near nodded to himself, his eyes wide as he's looking up at Coyote, with an almost accusing look.  
    “My pleasure” Coyote purred, her stance once more that of a duelist, vigilant and ready, but the body language betrayed her; the clear proudness of her sadistic tendencies on full display, “shouldn't the great N be a little more considerate? Take it away?”  
    “Exactly what I'm going to do,” Near replied, unnerved by the sentence, “ I catch criminals and I bring them to justice.”  
    “Poor Mail Jeevas, what will do you do with him?”  
    “Obtain information, of course.”  
    “Though, I thought you said that he was a problem?”  
    “Oh, yes, he's nothing but a disadvantage,” Near concluded, “but that doesn't mean things can't change. I need time, in fact, I have a plan already ready- the only problem is that I do not know how this is going to take, and how much time I have before Mello makes a sudden move, therefor, I need to calculate the worth and success rate of this plan versus the time consummation.”  
    “This brilliant plan, and I suppose you won't tell me?”  
    “Well, not exactly. You see, I'll make Mail Jeevas speak.”  
    “When we couldn't?” Coyote laughed once, sharp and almost bitterly, like she had hit a disdainful memory before she took out another unlit cigarette and placed it between her fingers.  
    “Of course,” Near replied, blinking up at the Mafioso, the aura of smugness already vibrating off the man in confident shades, “I'm sure if Mello could keep his mouth shut, then I can reopen it.”

    “Working with your enemy, the criminal,” Coyote smiled, her lips curling, the smile could the Cheshire Cat to shame, “be careful about the knife that's going to stab you back.”  
    “Certainly,” Near muttered, two fingers instinctively rolling into his sea of silvery-white locks of hair, slightly curly and enhanced by his attire and fragile, yet frost features, looking almost ghostly and glowing in the low light of the dark passageway, “but even the criminal that I'm currently working for won't be escaping justice for long.”  
    “My chil-”

    “Your child is no murderer.”

 

~XxX~

 

    Matt's floating on a cloud, and he can't come down; just a moment now, everything's still a little blurry around the edges-  
      
    Mello dragged a boy by the hair down the hallways of Wammy's House, looking very much pleased with himself as he ruthlessly yanked the boy along, who was sobbing and whimpering softly after him. Mello hummed a tune as he proceeded, his expression unnerved and almost peaceful, like he did this every day- and he certainly did terrorize the whole of the school.  
    Yes, he was skinny, but there was a glint in his eyes that made the others back off, sent into uneasiness or backed into fright. The light in his eyes was all they needed to know; a warning, a bomb ready for detonation.  
    There was more than one way to terrorize of course. Words for example, could hurt beyond physicality when used in the right hands, like a flawless pistol-whip: so sharp and practiced that the end of the gun was turned into a blade, hitting so efficiently that it tore, a single slash across the weakest joints of muscles and bone, cracking and splitting it right down the center.  
    The teen would scare them into submission with empty threats, but built on so elaborately that something so surreal became real. Or, if Mello was feeling more sadistic, he'd simply resort to physical violence because it was usually more efficiently and promising, not to mention quick.  
    Mello's mood immediately soured as he spotted Roger (the headmaster of Wammy's House) across the corner, who turned his way, grabbed him by his wrist, making him release the boy who ran off, before the man rushed the prodigal teen off into a different direction, with no more than a disappointed nod and a very discouraging, “Mello.”  
      
    Mello sweared his way down the hallways in multiple languages, looking extremely pissed off before he spotted Matt, who had his back pressed against a wall, one foot against the surface and the other planted firmly on the floor, his interest absorbed into the glowing screen that seemed to have held him captive, transfixed.  
    “Who pissed you off this time?” Matt rasped, his voice a little more than unused as he kept his head trained on the glowing screen, “was it that Albert kid?”  
    “I was about to be him to a pile of shit,” Mello barked, sounding very much disappointed, but mostly pissed, “but Roger stopped me.”  
    “I can see why,” Matt smirked, not looking up from his gameboy once, “pretty sure you beat the crap out of him one day ago.”  
    “Well, today isn't one day ago,” Mello growled, stomping over to where Matt was, before he folded his arms against his black shirt, “I hate him, beyond reason.”  
    “What did he,” Matt begun, before his expression turned equally sour, and he flipped his gameboy around, waving the pixelated words, “Game Over,” in Mello's face, “goddamn it! So, what did he do this time?”  
    “Nothing in particular, his face pissed me off. As I said, beyond reason, idiot.”  
    “Some reason.”

    Suddenly, the memory changed, and Matt was no longer there, melting away, into another memory with the haze of exhaustion and confusion. Shambling after his like a broken banner.

    “What do you mean Mello's gone?” Matt half yelled, one hand slammed across Roger's desk, the other, clutching his gameboy so tightly, that his knuckles were white, the look of lazy humor changed into something sharp and protective and strained.  
    “Matt, calm down,” the old man sighed, pushing the glasses back onto the bridges of his nose, “Mello left, he said he wanted to find his own path.”  
    “He could be anywhere,” Matt muttered, withdrawing from the desk, “and he didn't tell me?”  
    “Matt-”

    “I'm going to find him.”  
    “Matt-”  
      
    Suddenly, Matt was running, banging the door on the way out as his heavy boots crashed down the dark hallways that were bathed in moonlight, and he panted, reaching door after door, tearing through the school before he reached his own room, and he slammed the door shut behind him. The redheaded teenager didn't stop for a single second, before he blindly started throwing clothing and things into a bag, the only goal at mind was to leave, to find Mello.

    It didn't matter what he packed, or how long he was going to be out there- just that for some reason he couldn't understand, or possibly he could, he had to be there, by Mello's side.  
    When the man pulled him aside that night and told him that Mello couldn't be a successor, Matt knew; the Game was on and Mello leaving so abruptly was the best piece of evidence to prove that same point. The man had also told him to look out for Mello's impulsive nature, to protect him in a way Mello wouldn't ever admit and now, he had lost Mello before the Game had even begun.

    He needed to find Mello, and fast.

 

    Matt groaned, as his screaming body reined him to a stop and he was staring at the same pool of blood as yesterday. His body ached, and his head was a delirious mess. He could barely feel as someone dropped down next to him, and he had caught onto the faint words, “Mail Jeevas,” but he no longer felt, or heard, or cared for that matter. What mattered was that there was no more pain-filled torture for the moment, and he had to savor it before his luck ran even drier. He groaned, and whimpered, letting out various words of fear and submission.

    _Please stop, oh god. Please, please, it hurts. Stop, please stop. Oh god. Stop. Oh god, please stop. It hurts. Please stop, oh god-_

    Out of all the chaos, he caught onto the word, “Mello,” and his body reacted. Matt strained his neck, looking over, forcing himself to crack open an eye before he froze completely, not like the clumped breathing he had experienced, but everything stopped as one, shot in place.  
      
    The white hot mess of confusion and realization slugged him across the jaw with such force that he nearly lurched sideways from the shock, breathing heavily; panting, finding the almost-strength in the stale air before he was yelling- or would have yelled if he had the strength to do so.  
      
_Near. It's Near!_

    “Near....” Matt rasped and it sounded even so pathetically weak in his own ears; it was strained and tired.

 

~XxX~  
    

    Near blinked, certainly this wasn't what he expected. Gray eyes glanced down once more, calculating and wandering, before he stopped on Matt's face, and he stayed impossibly still, tensing every so slightly before his mind launched into overdrive, piecing together every single shred of evidence and speculation before he looked down once more, simply observing, beyond reality and time.

    _Mail Jeevas had a receiver in his ear when he had been shot on the steps of Sakura TV. He also claims he knows about the third party- Mello, no doubt about it. He refused to answer the questions, promising to tell once I arrived in Japan and the Japan officers had reported a redhead breaking curfew with a suspicious looking box under his arm._  
    _There is no doubt, Mail Jeevas works under Mello. Even if the chances of Mello's existence is from slim to zero, Mail's existence, and my deduction must conclude together that the existence of Mello is entirely possible and likely._  
    _And, if Mello is thinking like me, it would also be same to assume that he knows that I know that he knows that I know that he exists; the only problem, is that he is throwing taunts and hints of his realness, but he's also keeping himself impossibly hidden. Is it an act to offset me, simply his stubbornness and arrogance, or an illusion of the real truth? There is so many possibilities, but I must take into consideration that the third party may also have nothing to do with Mello entirely, but that's silly._

    _Of course Mello exists._

    _My evidence could be at a dead one percent, and I'd still know that I am correct._

    _Miahel Keehl, are you thinking what I think you're thinking? I know that I am thinking what you're thinking, so what do you think that I'm thinking? Because if you know what I'm thinking, I'd know what you're thinking, because it's the same exact thing, so therefor, I'm thinking what you're thinking._

    _So, if I'm correct, you are to make your next move soon. Of course, if you're thinking like me, you might hold off, but resolve to offense soon to spike the rhythm of your patterns, and if you offset the pattern, I'd know what you're really thinking._

    _The same exact thing._

 

~XxX~  
      
    Mello walked down the silent alleyway, with the intent on going nowhere. It didn't matter in what direction he was going, or a conscious destination, or how fast he was going, just that he was going nowhere in particular because he could.  
    Usually, if he wanted something done, he'd keep going until he couldn't anymore, but tonight was a special case. The Mafioso had kindly excused himself from he and Near's battle for just one moment now, to simply think, think about the past twenty years of his life. So much had happened and it took more than closing his eyes to rethink about the scenes and memories that flashed within his sea of thoughts.  
    Mello was almost fifteen when he left Wammy's House. He was fifteen when he first spat blood and over the course of six years, he joined the Mafia and worked endlessly on the Kira Case and against Near.  
    There was no guilt when Mello killed; whether it was with a gun or with the Death Note. He didn't blink, he didn't gasp; he wasn't surprised at all, because, as long as it wasn't one of his men, he was more than just fine with it. If someone raised a gun to their head right now, Mello wouldn't even blink, much less lift a finger. So, when he shot Matt, there was some form of guilt, but it dissipated as fast as the bullet had run, because Matt wasn't dead.  
    When he had that Death Note, he was tempted.

    _Nate River._ Just two little words, he could really do it, he should have done it, but he didn't.

    Mello didn't look a day over eighteen, but truthfully, he was twenty now. When he got the unforgettable scar across the left of his face down to his chest region, he felt pain, but he didn't usher a single word about it. He simply accepted it, and moved on. It was almost like it wasn't even there at all, because Mello simply didn't care about how it looked, as long as it didn't get in his way. When he looked at Matt, he looked older, tired, but there was no way that he was going to admit to that, because he didn't believe in the scar(s) that made him so.  
    He could see out of his icy blue eyes equally as fine, so at the end of the day, Mello decided, it was worth it at the end of the day.  
      
    Mello stopped, his heavy boots rooted him into place, the alley's shadow fell over his features, as a he looked up, and sighed; one of the least aggressive expression on his face yet to be seen.

    Nate River. He could really have done it, but that would be no fun, because competition branches motivation; he'd win, he'd win over Near, and he was going to do it in a way that when he finally forced Near onto his knees, he'd hear the acknowledgment he always needed- wanted, and Mello grinned, showing rows of gleaming teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATES for “His End is Near:” Fear not, I have not abandoned the fanfiction, in fact another chapter or even two this week, if I'm feeling up to it. I'm just trying to figure out, what the best way to twist the knife is, because Matt apparently isn't “suffering enough.”
> 
> UPDATES for you guys: I've decided that I need to spend more times on Beginning and End Notes because they lack life, and they're very plain.
> 
> THE PURGE: The Purge is a ritual that I take every few months, in which I delete the fanfictions that don't seem successful, or I just regret it/hate it after months. The last Purge consisted of me deleting every single League of Legends fanfiction I have written before my Graves x Twisted Fate arc, with an exception of, “A True work of Art.” So, if you think one of the works you like might be getting deleted, feel free to save it, but I urge you not to repost it (It was deleted for a reason, duh).
> 
>  
> 
> If you liked what you saw, please leave a like and a comment.
> 
> Until next time, EternityCode out!


	10. The Game Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... it's been four months since my last official post. I was both stuck on Homework, Writer's Block, Depressed mood swings as well as other factors that quite literally pissed me off.
> 
> Then one day, I saw the newest comments, and I was.... Unexplainably happy. So, well, something in those comments broke the ice, and here's TWO chapters today. Enjoy, and tell me what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated.

The Game Continues

 

    Near glanced backwards, his eyes trailing on thin air once more as he finally turned back around and locked eyes with Mail Jeevas; pitiful, hurt, wounded Mail, but still Matt.  
    “Matt,” Near responded, as equally hesitant, as he looked sideways, his eyes trailing upon Coyote, before he waved dismissively.  
    Coyote looked at the detective with what seemed like threatening pride, before she withdrew with a glare, black eyes piercing and the metal door slammed shut seconds later.  
    “Near,” Matt whispered, his voice faint and weak, but the beginning of a pained grin found his broken features and he suddenly stopped, looking terribly lost and confused, like a blinded traveler in a snowstorm. The man shuddered, and blinked rapidly, like he had forgotten what he was going to say, like he was trying to place his fingers on the answer that hung just so tantalizingly out of reach, but he couldn't and he was now hyperventilating and choking on random stutters, his breathing still continued in that strangled, choked and worrying way.     
     
    There was a moment of strained silence where Near simply looked at Matt, and Matt stared pleadingly at the ground, like what he wanted to say was on the tips of his tongue but he was forbidden to speak such a topic. Then, Near simply spared Matt of the embarrassment, and the detective made a small nod before he began, his gray eyes already lost of interest.  
    “Matt's tired,” Near decided slowly, before he got up, dark-green eyes burning into the back of his head in various shades of pleading ferocity, confusion and distress, but the captive said no more; he couldn't, conveying his torment in various conflicting shades of doubt and self-loath, and disbelief at his unanswering actions.  
    Matt didn't withstand his distress silently, and choked words stuck in the back of his throat and he wailed, slamming his head against the concrete one, two, five times before he finally gave in, dry-heaving, the pain of knowing causing a slow-motion electric shock to course throughout his body, and the ghost of a tired sigh escaped his cracked lips, before tears started falling, staining eyes and cheeks and chin, the transparency of it all on full display.  
    “Mail Jeevas is tired,” Near repeated, his voice frosted over with monotone and detachment, gray eyes cold. The man opened the door, with hysterical eyes trained on the back of his head, “I'm sure my private doctors can do something for you, please do not hurt yourself in the meantime.”

    The tension is maddening and Matt bites back before he screams out in distress and rage, bucking and spasming against his impossible restraints, doing anything he could psychically can to choke out a reaction from Near, for him to turn back, to look at his shame, to notice his truthfulness and that he wasn't mad, that he didn't know why on such an important moment, his mind simply failed him; he knew that he had to tell Near something, but something beyond morals and self-control was holding him back by the neck with an invisible leash, not letting him say so, and causing him ten tons of tension and breaking-point.

    It was a different sensation of pain and it burned into the insides of his skull like a brand, searing him and causing him to scream and beg mentally beyond all the anguish and torment that he had been sent through in a steamroller of confusion and closely kept promises.

    This pain was worse.

    So, when Near finally exited the room, Matt truly felt that something within him cracked, and fell out of place, the dysfunctional beat of his body and heart pounded at separate times, protesting their own riot as Matt's fists closed at his sides and he blinked, looking up at the painted ceilings, willing the tears not to slip, and he exhaled, green eyes flickering faintly in the half-light.

 

~XxX~

 

    _One Months Later-_

    Mello shuttered, icy blue eyes frozen as he glances back all of a sudden, his black coat following the sharp motion with a rustle, and the Mafioso gulps, before he swallows painfully. He didn't shutter from the cold, nor did wince from the cutting wind; it isn't because Mello had spotted something, but because an old memory had snuck up on him, making the man freeze up and root himself to the ground from a moment of shock and transfix, herding him into a state of hyper-awareness, like a deer that had been caught in the headlights.  
    He's in an empty alleyway, but he doesn't know what he's doing.  
    The memory is so intense, it's glowing white-hot, and it's painful to look at as the man braces himself. Mello exhales, his fists clench around his gun before gloved hands are reaching into his blondish-orange hair and he lets loose a strangled swear and his eyes close in frustration, as a sharp wince of pain makes itself known near the region of his left eye, and it spirals out of control, shocking him into submission, his scars screaming and it ripples all the way down to his heart.

    It hurt, it _hurt._  
     
    The heat brushed him off his feet, as the man scrambled for cover, the blackness that followed was beyond anti-dramatic, it was almost expected, as Mello let out a terrible scream as the detonation came, and the hellfire licked at his bones. He fell over the edge of the abyss, with no one there to catch him and the heat tore at his face and body, mercilessly shredding.  
    Then, a second explosion came, ranging across his shattered and bleeding ears as Mello clawed at his throat, moaning and hissing, as the building caved in on top of him, the desk that he had slip under near the corner of the room broke, and black marble and oak wood landed directly on his body, breaking bones and ripping tendons on impact with the ceiling following in its wake. Sharp stabs of glass found his hands and sides of his face, as wood splinters flew and cement shook.  
    With the bomb trigger still in one hand, and the other clutching protectively over his gun and heart, he exhaled shakily, as everything faded into gray, and the man saw hate; loathsome irony.  
    He saw pain, followed by hate; the unanswered question in his mind replayed, over, and over, a question no one could answer. The discoloration that matted his heart stained over completely, and he forgot how to breathe- no, he didn't want to breathe, the Mafioso wanted to give in then and there, but he hated it, he didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction, not even to himself. It would be cowardice, admittance, submission, and an announcement of his failures and loss. He could have let go, faded into eternal twilight, then and there, but he didn't. As the explosion and heat shambled on, the wave of exhausting and numbing pain washed him over in various layers of confliction, as the belated and distinctive crack against thousands was heard; the light that hung by a thread was the last that he ever saw before everything came to a close, like actors on a stage. What happened next was irrelevant, the curtains would close, and Mello, just another actor, would be no more.

    _Lights out._  
     
    Both Near and Kira took a step forward, and Mello was left behind, alone.        

    Though, despite those beliefs, Mello continued to live on, stricken by agony and unrest until the day it had supposedly ended. He was killed by the Death Note, and ironically, he had been laid to rest in that abandoned church- stone-cold murderer and victim, as the flames once more followed him, parading and dancing along to the still beats of his heart, his unseen eyes, the frozen cold blue-

    -he didn't die.

    Despite that second belief, he continued to live, because cats have nine lives, and Mello doesn't give a fuck about what Life, God, Kira or fucking Matt had to say, and the pure thought of staying alive clouded all other thoughts. The blond wanted to live, and so he did, and he did a good job at it. As the fire taped at his feet, melting black leather and sin, he made a break for it, not even wondering why and how he was still alive, every inch of his body screaming, and croaking for the immediate will to live.  
     
    However, he was a dead man walking, the embodiment of a plan; mission suicide and impossible, because something burned off more than just his flesh during the two fires.  
    Mello would defeat Near, kill Near, then kill himself.

    The winner would be him, would be Mello, but Matt would live, continue living, the closest to an apology that the redhead would ever receive from his boss, a single notion of defiant admittance and a linger of guilt and pain. After all of this, Mello would kill himself, and let Matt live; a sorry, the closest thing to a last thought and admittance, as Matt would stand there, with all of the power in the world, in his fingertips, all alone, and wondering what he had become.

 

~XxX~  
     
     
    “Mello, I fucking dare you to die on me right now,” Matt taunted half-heartedly, as he carried the man from the burning building, “I fucking dare you.”  
    The blond's face was mutilated and bloody and he was an unconscious heap as the redhead carried the blond away from the crime scene, with a cigarette between his teeth and a stern expression upon his features. The redhead's clothing was slightly singed from the flames and heat; the man had not made a second thought as he entered the dangerous explosion zone, as he screamed for Mello's safety.     

    It started off innocently enough, when he picked up a phone call from Mello, the first thing he realized was that something was extremely bothersome, wrong- the voice, and the absurd amount of static from the other end was frightening, and the dead silence lingered on, before one weak croak was heard through the speakers: help.  
    Matt had drove non-stop, at breakneck speeds down the dirt road, and when he finally got there, everything was in ruins; the building structure, the shattered glass, the broken bricks, overturned furniture, exposed passageways, pictures of pretty women, everything. The redhead had dug with his own hands, as he climbed over fragments of what was left, as he hissed Mello's name under his breath. Finally, the redhead found the blond unconscious, and slumped against a hidden passageway with the a cracked phone clutched in the palm of his hand. Blond hair was tainted maroon, and half his face was gone, marred over in various patches of red and brown. The leather was melted into his skin, and the heat had been proven at least third-degree and when Matt began to advance towards the man, all he ever heard was static and rising paranoia ringing in his ears. Matt was sure that one of his boss' arms were broken, judging from the odd angle, and just by looking, the side where his face was ruined, looked extremely excruciating and fragile, marred beyond recognition.  
    Matt only paused for a whole second before he carried on, pulled Mello into his protective embrace, and carried him away, before anyone noticed. The man smiled weakly at Mello's bloody form, before he whispered a light joke to Mello, who was, completely unconscious and dead to the world; if he wasn't, and had enough fight in him to speak, or raise his hand, Mello would had slapped Matt.  
    “Hey, boss,” Matt smirked, a pained laugh on his features, “they really put you six feet under, this time around.”  
    Met with silence, Matt just glanced up at the skies pleafully, the expression of his characteristic; mournful and tensed, before he continued on, doubling his pacing in defiance and confidence, but the only thought on his mind was: I should have been there, I should have followed Mello into the Mafia instead of stayed and watched over the monitors. The outcome would have been surely different if I came.

    Mello's face hurt, it stung and old wounds made itself known as a twitch and spark to the right side of his face jerked him out of his memory and the man reached up, two fingers slowly sliding across the scarred tissue, his glove cold against the burning heat. The Mafisco stood in the alleyway, silent, as the wind rustled his black jet lightly, tugging on him, before the man returned to the world, his face hardening into a feral growl, and he lashed out, throwing his arms to the side, before he kept it there, studying his own shaking hand, like there was blood; beneath the gloves, beneath his hands, beneath skin and bone.  
    The blond was no stranger to pain and death, let along a little blood, but his hands suddenly felt filthy, unwashed and tainted, as he scurried to wrench the clothing from his fingers, taking off skin in the process. Mello threw the gloves to the ground with a growl before he clutched his hands, looking them over, blue eyes wild like shattered glass, before he brushed them, like he was trying to remove the unseen red. His breath was jagged and rough, and suddenly, he felt weak, and so terribly alone.  
    He stumbled, his boots suddenly increased their weight by ten folds, as the man grabbed the wall for support, slipping, and sending scraped down his palms, where droplets of crimson sprang up immediately in protest. Mello shuttered, and forced his eyes shut, one hand clawing at his face, looking very much confused, as the unseen blue lost its steely focus for a second.  
    “What am I doing....” Mello muttered out loud, glaring down at the concrete floor like it had offended him, “where are they.....”  
    Mello choked, looking around, the cuts on his hands were barely an annoying sting in the back of his mind, as he searched blindly, before dropping to his knees, and simply collapsed there and inhaled, as if someone was going to take the oxygen away from him, if he did not breath it by the gallons in the next minute.  
    “Where is Matt,” Mello groaned, his eyes shut tightly, as his croak scraped against the brick wall, his hands buried into his face, and his face hidden beneath a mask of hate and hood; the man blended in perfectly with the shadows, where they embraced him with welcoming clutches, “Matt, where are you?”  
    Mello whipped his head upwards, before he cursed the night sky, letting strands of profanity loose, as his own anger, and pain-filled veins surfaced.  
    “Damn you, Matt!” Mello screeched, the motion so fast and brutal, that it almost seems as if the wall made a dent, when Mello thrusted his curled fist into the stony surface, smearing skin and blood across the canvas. The Mafioso glanced down in satisfaction as he studied his ruined hands, where it was now psychically as ruined as he felt, if not, less.  
    “Matt, how could you leave me?” Mello hissed, before he let loose another flash of silver-lightning against the wall, again, again, and once more, before he dropped back onto the ground, wasted, confused, and hysterical, “you said you'd do anything for me. WHY AREN'T YOU HERE?'  
     
    Mello's thoughts are a tangled mess, as various conflicting shades of red sulked at the edge of his vision, where he was shaking, groaning, and looking very much lost, and grieving. The man couldn't tell where one rational thought started, ended, if it were real, imagined or still there. Reality and ambition have become so closely intertwined, that it mead owed his thoughts, and shrouded his intelligence from its full capacity. Shades of pretty pain and pitiful scenes echoed in his mind, ricocheting off various sections of grief and anger. Every small wound that had ever existed, came back to his skin, where they burned marks, and left new signs. He felt like his body was being overtaken by nails, drilled in, ripped out, before topped off with salty baths. He felt like he was being stabbed with the thinnest blade possible, and Mello couldn't breathe for a few seconds, and he winced.  
    “I want you here....” Mello muttered, shaking his head furiously, “Why aren't you here? I- no I don't need you, you bastard, but I want an answer! Goddamn you, Matt!”

    Mello cursed himself through seas of unrest, that he, was Mihael Keehl, and he was going to be the best, he was going to be number one and finally defeat Near; he was going to succeed! The man reminded himself that Matt was nothing more than a chess piece for his commanding, in fact, the redhead had said it himself: “hey, boss, you know I'd die for you, right?”  
    It was a vicious cycle, where Mello told himself he didn't care, where whenever he caused Matt pain, he'd only intensify it to squash the ever looming guilt. Where he felt so insecure, that the only way of feeding his ego and shattered pride was to cause another pain, to break another's will, or simply double the amount of anguish. The man was sadistic, and he knows it- he doesn't deny it, he's almost proud of it.  
    However, under all the carefully fabricated emotional detachment he made himself feel, that he forced upon himself, he couldn't always hide behind a mask of only intelligence, and nothing else. He was emotional, and that overruled all others in times of need- the guilt would always come back, stronger than ever, testing his patience and mind as it feasted on his dread and self-loath.  
    In defiance, Mello would only treat Matt iller, with more brutality, physically and verbally abusing him until Hell came through.

    Mello couldn't stop hurting others, resulting in him feeling guilty, which resulted in damaging others even more, which only wounded himself. No matter how many times he tried to comfort it or tried to hide from it, he met the same end, and it only repeated, worsening from there on out, spiraling out of control as the acid of insecurity stained his sanity and covered his heart.

    I am Mihael Keehl. I will prevail at any means necessary.

 

~XxX~

 

    “Mail Jeevas?” the man asked, as he paced around, facing his patient, “how are you feeling today?”  
    Matt stared up with empty eyes, the green flickered in layers of confusion, before he dropped his gaze, like the subject no longer concerns him, as he whispered furiously under his breath, his fingers fumbling over the tiny rubix cube that Near had given him the day he had been taken out of that terrible place, the confinement where he once thought eternal.  
    “Mail,” the man repeated sadly, pitiful eyes trained upon the redhead, before he advanced by a step, “say something, please?”  
    Matt was jerked out of his trance, shuttering in fright, as the movements in his fingers came to an abrupt halt and he dropped the object, barely noticing as it scuttled across the floor with two distinctive clacks.  
    “Please,” Matt hissed, instinctively raising his scarred his hands up to his face, covering his ears in a pleading manner, as he convulsed on himself further, making himself a weaker target, a smaller threat and notice, “Please stop, oh god. Please, don't hurt me, please, I'm begging you, please, go away. I don't want to hurt, please.”  
    “I'm not going to hurt you, Mail.”  
    Matt winced, he's heard too many lies that he could count, this was only another one, to lead him into a fall sense of security, wasn't it? Wasn't it!  
    “Please, go away....” Matt echoed in a small voice, with his hands still covering his features, green eyes dull and unseeing, “please.”

    The doctor shook his head sadly, raised his hands in defeat, signing the waver for Matt, as the man retreated in defeat. This was worse, the man thought that Matt was irreversible; he had given up, and the redhead's death contract had been signed.

    _He's on his own now._


	11. Mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, four month wait? I'm sorry, but ever seeing the comments, I felt so inspired and happy, I thought I'd just give this extra little chapter up. Thanks people! 
> 
> The comments mean a lot to me, keep me updated. ^ ^

Mend

 

Near moved around the white room, his analytic eyes set upon shaking green ones, and he closes the door behind him, the white he wears is so distinctive, it sends off a whole another vibe in the deathly room; it's not cheerful or warm, but not exactly threatening and negative either. They're staring at each other- gray eyes pinning, green eyes avoiding. The lap dance goes on for a few more minutes, where either party stays firm, each at their own tempo, waiting for the other to make the first move, and only shying away when they see signs of their own interest and impatience.  
Near doesn't want to lose, therefore, he waits silently more, and Matt, he keeps waiting, because he's not sure what to do, the only thing on his mind was for the man to leave him alone; he needed to thread through broken thoughts and questions of his own.  
Instead of aggressively snapping at the white-hair, because he was still testing the waters, and he wasn't such a man; Matt was a loner, and he wasn't aggressive, passive-aggressive at best. With the mental and physical trauma he had to withstand, it was crushing all on it own. Matt kindly excused himself form any other rational thought- it hurt, it split his world down with agitated scars and splitting flesh.

“Matt,” Near states, finally breaking in the ice, “I'm going to approach you now. Please, understand that I am not going to hurt you.”  
On that note, Near approaches slowly, how like one would consult a cornered animal, and he sits, pulling up a chair alongside Matt's bunk bed. Matt says nothing at the advance, but he is clearly struggling to drop his gaze respectfully back into his lap. Near exhales, sighs, and Matt takes that as the que to stop holding his breath, sighs too, before he finally looks up, green eyes fractured into a million little bits, the hue of rebellion and at ease distinguished, their flares and pulses non-existent as he eyes the empty gray carefully, like they were guns pointed at the side of his skull. He doesn't say a word, his eyes still trailed upon Near's, knuckles white, fisted into the cloth of his bed, as the needles that are digging under his skin keeps the drugs pumping into his veins, easing him, putting him under in carefully woven security and calmness, drowning off any negative emotion he could be experiencing but Matt knows; he knows that the drugs aren't working, because instead of a drowsy floating he's supposed to feel, all he feels is dread and a dying wish- both working in harmony to push him over the edge of no return.  
It was only when the buzzing in his ears (Near's words) suddenly grounds up to a high shrill, like sheets of metal against each other, as they rip and shriek, and he sees a hand, pale fingers too close for comfort, inches for his face, and he pulls back, recoils with a undignified hiss. A wail follows, as the wounds, thousands of dagger marks makes themselves known, ripples down his nervous-system, with laces of fire in pursue. The redhead tenses up, abandoning all action and thought and just feels, waiting for the pain to subside.  
The man's sent into hyper-awareness as he stares, the hand still not retreating, with no intention of backing off, but not advancing either. They hovered in and out of his vision, and the words that followed were finally drawn into his chaotic mind.  
“Matt, I need you to stay calm,” Near states once more, his voice thin with the lack of emotion, “I'm not going to hurt you.”  
Near shakes his hands lightly, and it was only now that Matt found something, a detail so minor, it was almost laughable that he even took it in.

Neat had impossibly steady hands, he's seen what they could create first hand, even at Wammy's. Now, they were shaking, a tremor so small, it could have passed by unnoticed, but Matt saw it alright; one quick spasm, an uncontrolled twitch, before it settled back into the steady rhythm he was use to seeing.  
“Your hands....” Matt gasps, unfamiliar with his voice that was run through with sandpaper and abuse, “they're not steady anymore.”  
It was a stupid comment really, but Near noted that the redhead had been the first to pick up in over a year. Only he and his card stacks knew of this fleeting detail, but it was there. It was true that his hands were no longer steady, broken and shaking ever since the day of Mello's death.  
“You're right,” Near said simply, his mind working over the words, the small details. He quickly comes to the conclusion that Matt was not a lost cause, that he was still capable of rational thought and some degrees of deducting. It would surely be useful to the investigation, the plan- the game, so he continues, advancing once again, but this time with eye contact, staring the other man down in a competition of sheer will.  
Near, with impossibly steady hands tips something into Matt's lap and it has the redhead's skin crawling uncomfortably in surprise and anticipation. It's a figurine, a figurine with orangish-blond hair, varnished over with a block of black paint from the neck down. There was a red “X” marking the back of the figurine and where slots once held transparent, plastic wings. Matt just stares, transfixed with the small object, before he carefully picks it up and tucks it into his palm, gritting his teeth.

Near stares, exhaling as he pulls back slowly, his hands twitching once before he drops them to his sides, simply looking at Matt once again, as if asking him to ask, to question his actions.  
The awful and awkward silence took over and neither look at each other, with Matt staring at his bed sheets, and Near, staring at Matt, but not into his eyes, not searching, but beyond all the twilight drama that reflected the past abuse; Near was searching deeper, digging deeper for anything beyond reality, looking at what Matt was.

Mail is delusional and unsteady, he is in shock but he's still capable of thought and memory. If it is necessary, and I repeat, it is necessary for the plan, then I will use an act of kindness, of intimate trust to bring Mail back. If fighting fire with fire does succeed- and I have to admit that it is more of Mello's style, it still may work, and every little moment counts in a time like this. If Mello is thinking like me, I do not think that he'd every think that, I am currently thinking like him. A bold and interesting strategy that may as easily backfire, but if Mello does not know that I am plotting and thinking like him, there will be no flaw, he would never dream to know.  
I'll break Mail down from Mello then mend him with emotional kindness, and get him to trust me completely, and then I'll break him down to telling me what I need to know and get the confession and answers I need about Mello. If my deduction skills are correct, Coyote will die soon, and it will not be connected, or traced back to me. Ignorance, is a worthy excuse. She's a strong woman, but love had always been a chip on her shoulders; it made her impulsive, sacrificing and hot-headed. To protect her child, she had agreed on my conditions and terms that, she will commit suicide after the case is over. Jail for life isn't an option, it's not even apart of the equation in her eyes. In return for her death (It is quite important to the plan) I will support her child, besides, suicide is an easy way out in her eyes; it's already another favor, sparing her the humiliation.

And one more thing. The defiance, the glare in Mail's eyes, they're different. That moment when he looked away, it was as good as a confession; he knows that Mello's alive and there's something he desperately does not want me to see, to exploit, so I must go deeper, I must get Mail to have complete, utterly unmovable trust and reliance on me.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Near repeats once more, reinforcing today's lesson, eyeing the other man, the dark circles that rimmed his eyes were quite noticeable, darker than they use to be, more defined ever since his encounter with Coyote. Though, now that they were in Japan, in a secluded area, it was only a matter of time when Mello found the destination. The detective would need to be on his sharpest senses, in case their encounter did end in bloodshed, though however unlikely.  
“Next time,” Near paused looking up at Matt's mane of untamed red hair, “we can talk, if you want.”  
Of course, Matt was not comfortable, the man was already sweating bullets, whether from tensed nerves or hallucinations, that wasn't important. What was important was that Near was going to fix Matt, whether he liked it or wanted it or not, because that was important to the plan.

Near guessed that he owed Matt in a sense.

For stopping him from committing suicide.

 

~XxX~

 

It was a kind of taboo, that to be broken, only brought adrenaline and thrill in its wake. Mello tasted it fully, and he loved it. It was also quite illegal, but Mello never really regarded the law even at a young age. Laws are boundaries, and boundaries were made to broken, because they were usually faster, more efficient, and reliable.  
At the moment, the man was running his hands across the latest model, the black gun in his fingers felt too right, and comfortable, like it belonged there, and Mello caressed it through gloved hands, his icy blue eyes unblinking, wide and anticipating as he looks over every beautifully wicked detail of the weapon; from the polished surface to the revolver, the nuzzle to the trigger, it was gorgeous, dangerously thrilling; marble black, and heavy.  
And because everything that was holy, Mello licked the gun, tasting the powdery residue of the bullets and metallic tinge. It was nothing like chocolate, the Mafioso noted, giving it another experimental lick before he put it down on the glass table in front of him. The weapon sat, next to two bottles of Vodka and a computer. He kicked his legs up, where they rested on the polished surface.  
The gun was expensive, not even a price had been placed on the product- Mello wanted it, he wanted it with all his heart- and the man had gotten it.  
Without paying a single cent.

Mello always got what he wanted, wherever, whenever, at any price.

It had been difficult in the past month, with no further movements from Matt, Near, or Coyote. After Coyote had dismissed his offer, Mello had blew up the Black Lotus' base, without as much of a single thought. Everyone in there had been killed, and Mello didn't doubt that if the Mafioso was in there, she'd surely die. If she didn't die, however, she was going to be out of action for a while. Mello wasn't afraid of her, just thinking about the transparent panic and anger on her face made him spit out a harsh bark of laughter. Coyote was pathetic, the Mafioso was nothing, a coward. If Mello really wanted Coyote dead, her heart wouldn't be beating right now, and that leaves Matt and Near.  
Mello knew nothing of their conversations, assuming Matt was still in his right mind. He didn't know what was happening where Near and Matt were located, and he needed to find out as soon as possible. The blond wasn't quite afraid of what Matt was going to say because he knew that Matt wouldn't say it. Because Matt loved him, and because he knew it. When he held something so powerful, such as Love hostage, there were really no worries. Matt wouldn't say anything, and he never will, there is not a single drop of doubt. What was he afraid of, was that fact of not knowing, it didn't matter what Near was discussing at the moment, it was just that the detective was still alive, and he was talking. Talking about something Mello couldn't hear, and that was outrageous, and unforgivable.  
Mello wanted to know, and he'll find out.

“Sir,” a man outside his door knocked, sounding timid and careful, “he's back in Japan, but we do not know the locations yet.”  
Mello smirks, whipping up the chocolate bar from that same glass table, before he bites down, cracking the solid, and he begins to chew, before he gives the sweet a shy lick, glancing up at the dorm his blue eyes wide and a little crazed before he swallows abruptly, giving his answer.  
“Perfect.” 

_So, Near, you're back in Japan, huh? Meeting me head on, are you? You've always been a coward, a cheater. You've always relied on others like Halle and Rester. You are nothing. You've finally got the balls to meet me head on, and I think it's perfect, just perfect._  
_I didn't even have to drag you here, you came on your own will. I didn't even give you the ropes this time, you found it, and tied it around your neck. All I need you to do now, is let go, where your feet would never touch the ground-_  
_-that's what it is, isn't it? Crawling around on the ground like a disgusting bug, you're afraid of death, Near. I know you are._

_You're absolutely terrified of Death, Nate River. You're scared to show your own face, you're waiting for me to make my first mistake, but the joke's on you; I'll be waiting for you to make your mistake, because I'll be the one waiting. You're the tool for me to solve my “puzzles” now, because you're not the only one I want dead. There's so many more, and it's all thanks to you._  
_Because I'm thinking like you, and I know that you know that I know that you know that I am doing so, I must also conclude, and now know that you will be thinking like me. Fighting fire with fire, a fine counter-antic, but the joke's on you, once again. I know that I know your tactics._  
_You think you've won, or at least have the edge, don't you, Near?_

_Near you think you've won, DON'T YOU?_

_YOU THINK YOU'VE WON!?_

_You're pathetic, you're loosing your cool, Near, because your strategy has been rushed. I know that you are trying to get Matt to talk, and that's one of your main goals. Because I know that you're thinking like me, you'll do the something unpredictable. You'll try to make Matt speak by trusting you._  
_You're afraid of me, that's why you're rushing your plan._

“Near,” Mello howled, laughing, banging his fist on the table, where he continued to stifle breathy gasps of insane laughter, “you'll die. I'll kill you- I'll kill you!”  
“Sir,” came a hesitant and scared voice from the other side of the door, “are you alright?”  
“I'm more than fine,” and on those words, Mello's voice dropped to a deathly quiet pitch, where he returned his attention to the chocolate, and he noted how sweet it was compared to the ones he had this morning, “but I know someone who if ruins my mood once again, I will.....”  
There was frantic gulping from the other side, before the man keeps his silence, holding his breath.  
“cut out his tongue,” Mello snapped his fingers, the chocolate hanging between his teeth, and his eyes were wide and unseeing, “you have been dismissed.”  
“Yes, sir!”  
“Wait,” Mello barked, glancing up at the door once more, a gloved finger raised in the air, “is there something you're hiding from me?”  
Though it was set as a question, the tone of voice stated that it wasn't.  
“Sir!” the voice behind the door begged, stifled with pathetic sobs, “Jacob was murdered yesterday!”  
There was sudden intake of breath before it was hushed quickly, but Mello could sense the cowering body behind that wall, and he scoffed, before crunching down on the sweet. There was a distinctive crack and he chews, before response almost lazily.  
“I killed him,” Mello stated, blue eyes frozen cold, “he was taking private shares of crack and selling them for his own gain behind my back.”

Mello hums a small tune under his breath, like he had done nothing more than clapped a fly, before he returns his full interest somewhere else. “you have been dismissed.”

Mello didn't kill Jacob, but no one needed to know that; fear, was always a disciplining master.

 

~XxX~

“N,” Matt addressed the detective simply, still staring down into his lap where his gaze stubbornly stayed, “I- We've been over this, this subject is closed for discussion.”  
“Oh, really?” Near stares at Matt, clearly unamused, before he brings the binder he had tucked under his arm into Matt's presence, “so, you are loyal to Mello even still after the torture he's put you through?”  
“I'm not working for Mello!” Matt hisses, a little too defensively, his back still throbbing the previous violations; they were still an ugly red, laced down with jagged lines and fishnet cuts, a far cry from the horrid truth.  
“I see,” Near replied, his eyes unblinking, the gray intense and questioning, searching Matt's narrowed gaze, before a finger reaches into his sea of white hair, “then, if you do not work for Mello, I presume it would be quite fine if I told you some data about him?”  
“Why not?” Matt replied, stuttering slightly, already regretting this conversation; he knew he should have stayed silent, yet here he was, bracing himself for what was yet to come.

Near stares at Matt with emotionless eyes, his voice monotone and outside the picture. The voice was colorless and flat, and they were harsh, so harsh that Matt recoiled, like he had been lashed with a whip instead of hearing a sentence. They were true, and Matt knew they nailed every single point, but it didn't mean he wanted to hear it, because he knew they were true.

“You can see here,” Near states, opening the book he was holding, and setting it on where Matt lay on his bed, “information on Mello.”

The man points at certain areas where he had highlighted, addressing Matt to look, with an air of smug confidence.  
“N,” Matt asks, feeling the panic rising, forcing it down with a tired and nervous laugh, “you are telling me this because?”  
“Because I think it's interesting, and I have a feeling that you should know.”  
“Near, I'm feeling quite tired, actually,” Matt retaliated, the panic in his stomach was dangerously threatening, on the brinks of overflow.  
“As expected,” Near agreed, getting up before deciding to hand a piece of paper from the binder towards Matt, “but I thought this was quite interesting.”

On that note, the man walked, turning the knob to that door before shutting it behind silently.

Matt stares down at the paper, and a icy lump of apprehension drops into his stomach, and his heart crawls for his throat. Big bold letters are flashing back at him, and they're taunting, making him question everything he stood for; Mello.  
The man wanted to vomit, crawl and hit himself at the same time, every violent movement of rejection and doubt tears at his flesh and rips his recently closed wounds, and he makes a choked sound.

As I have previously stated, the police force is in state to negotiate. I have Mail Jeevas, the wanted criminal known responsible for five homicides and countless other cases such as burglary and assault. I want access to the global satellites as well as four carts of army grade weapons and two untrackable helicopters in return for Mail Jeevas. You will bring those items to the desired place once we have ourselves an agreement. If you dare make a single move out of line, I will be forced turn Mail Jeevas onto my side. I understand that you do not want to make direct enemies with the Mafia, so if you step a single foot out of line, or if I even see a single officer near the trading destination, I will shoot him. If you do not show up with the items, people will die, unarmed citizens will die. Officers will die, and there will be at least five-hundred injured; believe me, you do not want to test my abilities. I'm sure that you are familiar with the term, “those who have nothing to lose are the most dangerous?”

Remember, you, the police for is no position to negotiate. You play on my terms, or you can kiss your precious people goodbye. I will bring Mail Jeevas.

 

_-M_


	12. I N T E R M I S  S I O N

So it's been eight months since I last updated....

Though my writing style might be different now, I'm still thinking of continuing this story seeing it's my most popular one.

**Author's Note:**

> If you did enjoy, drop a comment and a like. C:


End file.
